


The Otherside

by violetnyte



Category: Starfighter (Comic)
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe, Angst, Blood Magic, Dark, Dark Magic, Demon Sex, Demonic Possession, Drugs, High School, I Don't Even Know, M/M, Mental Instability, Occult, Other, Paranormal, Psychic Abilities, Psychic Violence, Psychological Trauma, Rough Sex, Sex, Suicide, Trauma, Underage Drinking, Underage Drug Use, Underage Rape/Non-con, Underage Sex, Violence, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-21
Updated: 2017-03-14
Packaged: 2018-08-23 17:22:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 33
Words: 118,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8336227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violetnyte/pseuds/violetnyte
Summary: AU: Even though a brush with death changed everything for him, Ethan just wants to be a normal high school kid -- but there's nothing normal about being dragged into a world of dead things, dark magic, and terrible danger. Now something's taken an interest in him, and Ethan's problems are about to become the least of his worries as a demon called Cain takes over his life.





	1. Prologue

_When I was fourteen years old, I slipped on the deck of my father’s boat and struck my head on the railing. I don’t remember what happened next, but everyone says that I fell into the water and wasn’t breathing when they finally pulled me out again. Everyone says I looked dead, flopped unbreathing and limp on the deck of my father’s boat. I don’t remember this, but they tell me it happened._

_Obviously I didn’t die, I’m not dead. I have to be alive, this has to be the part of my life that’s real - this is still my life. But once it started happening, after it kept happening, I wondered if I maybe had died that day on the boat. If maybe the boy who went into the water wasn’t the same boy they pulled out again. I know that sounds crazy. All of this is going to sound crazy, but if you could see what I see, you’d start to wonder, too._

_The first wasn’t long after that day on the boat, three months later to be exact. Not to the day or anything, but after my birthday so I was fifteen years old when I saw my first ghost. My grandfather, actually, standing there at the edge of the cemetery as we buried him. I didn’t see him for very long, and I honestly didn’t even know what to think about seeing him._ _At the time I told myself it was nothing. A mistake, some other old man with withered cheeks and hollow eyes, with parchment paper skin and wispy white hair. But then it happened again, and it kept happening, and I started to wonder about that day on the boat, the day they say I went into the water and wasn’t breathing when they pulled me out again._

_See I think that was the day all this started. I think that was the day something happened to me, in that time between when I wasn’t breathing and was, something besides scaring my mother and splitting my skull. Something happened to make me different, so the boy they pulled out of the water wasn’t the same boy who went under._

_I’m telling you this now so you’ll believe me when I tell you that I’m not crazy, that I really do see this stuff and it’s real. It’s more than just the ghosts, the dead people, the stuff that’s not there but yet I see it. Everyone says it’s not real but it’s right there, and I see it. I’m telling you this so you’ll believe me when I tell you I need help, and not the kind of help that my mother tried with doctors and medication until I started lying better about it. I don’t need that kind of help, because I’m not crazy._

_I know you can help me. You have to help me. I see this stuff, and I don’t know why or what it means, but I just know that last week was the first time something saw me back. Something looked back at me and knew I could see it, and now I’m scared. I heard a voice last night that wasn’t mine, wasn’t my mother’s or my father’s, wasn’t the television or the computer or the neighbors. I heard something calling for me. Something’s coming for me, I think. Something knows who I am, what I am. I don’t even know what I am but it does, and it’s calling for me._

_I know you can help me. I need you to help me. I don’t know enough about what this is, what it means, what I see or what sees me -- and I know you do. Please don’t ask me how I know, how I got your name or this address. Just tomorrow when I knock I need you to open the door. I need you to let me in. I’m not just a dumb kid looking for trouble. I’m a scared kid in a lot of trouble, and I know you can help me. You have to help me, please. I don’t know where else to go or who else to ask. Just open the door and talk to me, tell me I’m crazy or tell me I’m not. I need to know if this is real like I think or if I really am crazy. Thanks. _-reliabel5 (Abel)__


	2. Chapter 2

“Did you leave the letter yesterday?” Aidan whispers. He’s pressed almost entirely into my back as we stand there in the alley listening to the drip from the guttering.

I glance up at the faded brick and boarded-up windows to the high roofline above where a grimey satellite dish juts into the sky. I can’t believe people live here, and I can’t believe I’m standing in this alley with my best friend in our school uniforms. The navy blazers and crisp khaki pants feel like big red targets in such a rundown neighborhood. I know we shouldn’t be here, and I know I shouldn’t have brought Aidan, but I was scared to come alone.

I’m even more scared when I knock again and no one answers, nothing happens. The warped steel of the door is wedged tight into the jamb, and the knob doesn’t turn at all when I try. A square of thick glass woven with metal provides no view at all of what lies beyond the door. Rusted bolts secure an equally rusted letterbox to the inset niche of the doorway, and I peek inside again to see the envelope with my letter is gone.

“Yeah,” I say to Aidan. “I left my letter.”

I didn’t let Aidan see what I wrote, but he knows exactly why I’m here. We’ve been friends since the third grade, ever since my mom and his mom started playing bridge together on Saturdays at the country club. He’s the type of friend to keep a secret, but I’m not sure he believes me. What I wrote in that letter, about the boat and everything I see, he knows the story, but I’m not sure he believes me. No one believes me, but I think the person on the other side of this door might.

Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe no one’s here. I knock again, louder, almost hurting my knuckles with the furious pounding.

“Hey!” I shout, loud as I dare. “Hey, open up! Please! I’m the one who wrote to you!”

Aidan grabs my arm. “Ethan!” he hisses. His round eyes go even rounder in his round face.

He was pudgier as a kid, faintly freckled and full of dimples, but puberty eased out some of the awkwardness and turned him out okay. He’s got this curly blonde hair that’s so pale it’s nearly milk, and I know of at least two girls in school with crushes on him now.

I kind of had a crush on him when we were thirteen, but mostly because I was starting to realize what was wrong with me. Before I ever fell from the boat, I mean, and became even more wrong than ever. No, back then I was just realizing how much more I like Aidan’s dimpled cheeks and pasty-pale chest when we’d go swimming together at the country club. I was supposed to watch the girls in their bikinis, but I spent too much time watching my best friend.

Much as it’s mean to think I don’t find Aidan so attractive anymore, it’s a relief not to have an awkward crush on my best friend. Sometimes though, I wonder if maybe I shouldn’t have tried going for him after all.

“Ethan,” he hisses again. I let my mind wander, with him so close and pressed against me in the narrow brick nook. “Ethan, let’s go. No one’s here.”

I wonder if he thinks I’m being crazy again. He’s too sweet to ever say it, but I wonder anyway. “You can go,” I say. “I’m going to wait. Maybe he’s not just here yet.”

“You don’t even know this person,” Aidan says. “You can’t trust the stuff you read on the internet, Ethan. I know you’re good with computers and the black web--”

“Dark web,” I tell him. “It’s called the dark web, or deep web, and it’s just parts of the internet you can’t find on Google. You always act like I’m breaking the law just looking at it.”

“It’s where you can hire a hitman or buy drugs or talk to pedophiles, you mean. You’re going to get in so much trouble if your parents ever figure out you spend all that time online looking at that stuff.”

“I’m not trying to hire a hitman. That’s not the stuff I look at. I just want answers.” I kick at the door in frustration, but the leather toe of my Oxfords don’t make a dent.

“Ethan…”

The look he gives me is one I hate. It’s that one where he doesn’t believe me anymore, where he thinks he already knows all the answers and doesn’t understand why I don’t accept it. It’s the same look I used to get from my mom and my therapist, before I started lying better about it.

Suddenly we both hear it. Aidan flinches and grabs my arm to tug me back a step. The metal-on-metal slide of the lock is followed by the steel door snapping open a few inches. I only see darkness and the glint of a heavy chain.

“You wrote the letter?”

The voice is husky, warm, shiver-inducing and just what I expected.

I swallow dust and terror. “Yeah.”

“And him?”

I tilt my head some to try seeing past the sliver of darkness and then look at Aidan’s terrorized expression. “A friend,” I say.

“He stays. You come in.”

Aidan grabs my arm again. “Ethan,” he whispers. “Ethan, don’t do this. Let’s go.”

“Okay,” I say to the darkness. And then to Aidan, “Okay. It’s okay. Wait here for me.”

Aidan looks up and down the alley. “Here?” he asks. He’s already pale enough without going white-faced with fear on me like this.

“Or go wait in the car. Circle the block or something, I’ll call you when I’m done. Okay? Please,” I beg him. “Please, Aidan.”

“God, Ethan, just be safe.” His arms go around me in a fast hug before he steps back. He’s got these big brown eyes, puppy dog eyes, and they’re full of worry as I square my shoulders and face the steel door.

The door closes enough for the chain to slide back, and then it opens again. I step forward into the darkness, and before my eyes can adjust the steel door slams shut. A man’s shadow steps around me and works closed the lock and chain.

He’s tall, broad-shouldered and strong through the jaw, with a short shag of inky-black hair. Darkness swathed one side of his face as he turns to look at me, and as my eyes adjust further to the dim light I see it’s an eyepatch he’s wearing. The eye watching me is dark and knowing, like it can see right through me. I shiver, even though the air is warm.

Heavy scents of incense and melting wax threaten to choke me. Across the room I see glimmering candles set into a bowl of blood-red glass rocks, and the strange lighting flickers over all the shadows that make up the small entry. There’s a dark curtain swept across the back part of the room and another curtain guarding a doorway to our left.

“This way,” he says. I follow him through the curtain to find stairs. We go up, up, and up. I count the floors and feel my stomach roll as there’s one too many. I counted three floors from the outside, but there’s four landings.

He stops at the top and looks at me with that same piercing gaze. “You are certain about this?”

There’s a slight accent to the words, something mysterious in a way that’s suiting, a way that should be cliche but isn’t. Everything about this is what I expected and yet so awful, so real, not crazy just like I’m not crazy but maybe I wish I was. It’d be easier if I was.

My hands start to shake and sweat. “You read my letter?”

“I read your letter,” he says.

I shiver again, that voice of his seeping into my bones like cold autumn chill. “Then you know I’m sure.”

He nods and leads me down a short hallway to another curtain. His hand presses on the fabric but doesn’t whisk it aside. I see flickering light escape along the floor and wall as the velvet curtain sways. “It is not too late to leave.”

“I’m sure,” I tell him. “I want to know.”

“I was afraid you would say that.” He pushes the curtain aside, and the room beyond is everything I expected to find and worse.

Spread across the wooden floor are russet lines and symbols, an unmistakeable pentagram drawn in what I fiercely hope isn’t but know for sure is blood. Old blood, obviously old blood, everything about it looks old and worn. A long table runs along the far wall. Bones, candles, books, silver knives and bowls, all manner of things like this is some Halloween display. It’d be hokey, it’d seem fake, if not for the fact I know I counted three floors but walked up four flights of stairs.

“Go in,” he says.

I shuffle into the room. I’m scared to step on any part of the giant pentagram, so I have to edge along the wall toward the table.

“You can sit,” he says. It’s only when he gestures that I see the two folding chairs leaned up in the corner. Just the two chairs, like he was expecting to do this, and I don’t even know what to think about that.

I take one, pop it open, and sit. He comes over and does the same. I look up at the light fixture and then feel my mouth go to dust again when there isn’t one. The room flickers as if a huge candelabra should be up there swinging, but there isn’t one. There are no windows, no lit candles, just all this flickering light in a room I know shouldn’t exist.

My knees start shaking. I have to put my equally shaking hands between them and clench everything together to stop the trembling. I think about the boat, the water, everything I’ve seen and that voice calling to me the other night -- I think about all that, and I am so scared.

He crosses his long, lean legs and rests easy in the chair. He’s wearing perfectly normal clothes, just boots and jeans with a tight black shirt that shows his strong biceps. He’s possibly one of the most handsome men I’ve ever seen, and that kind of thinking makes heat rise in my face. I feel so impossibly young and stupid in that moment, sitting there in my school uniform.

I know what I look like. I’ve got big blue eyes and my mom’s pretty face, a soft tousle of bright gold hair, my biceps aren’t bulging with muscles but are just sleek and pale, I’m not as small as Aidan but no one’s ever going to expect me on the football field. I look young. I am young. I know he’s looking at me and just seeing a dumb rich kid, a perfect fish out of water, but that’s not my fault. I don’t know what happened to the boy that fell off his dad’s boat, but I’m the kid they pulled back out and got to breathing again. I’m the kid sitting here knowing that if anyone’s going to have answers for me, it’s this handsome one-eyed man in a room without shadows.

“So, your letter,” he says.

When he says nothing else, I just have to nod and say, “My letter.”

He watches me for a long moment and then shifts to recross his legs in a different casual fashion. “This room,” he says. “Is it bright or dark?”

“Bright,” I tell him. “There are no shadows, not even under the table or under you. Nothing in this room has a shadow, and nothing in this room casts light.”

A slow, lazy smile spreads over his face. “No shadows,” he agrees.

I pull my lower lip into my teeth. “So it’s real? I’m not crazy?”

He laughs, low and chuckling so that I shiver again for the rumbling sound of it. He’s only sitting there, watching me with a strange, knowing smile and looking at me with a piercing eye that seems to see everything.

“You could be crazy. How is it I would know? But, these things that you see. That you see them, it does not make you crazy. I see them, too, and know many others the same. You had to know already, to have written such a letter and left it for me here.”

The breath I release is one I have held for so long. Perhaps it’s the breath I held going into the water when I was fourteen. I laugh some, so relieved that I could cry, and rub at my face. This is happening, this is real, if nothing else I know that I’m not alone anymore.

I start to explain, and it turns rambling from how nervous I am. “I saw online, I saw that this place, you, people talk about the kind of stuff that happens here, the kind of stuff you can do, about talking to the dead and curses, or breaking curses, and I just thought if anyone could help it would be this place, you, so I just...”

I see the man look confused at first, and I stop talking once he starts to look angry.

“Who is it that says these things?” he demands. “Who has told you these things of me?”

“I - I don’t know, the internet. Forums. Internet forums.”

He stares at me, and I brush a hand against my side to feel the reassuring rectangle lump of my phone. I told Aidan I would call, and Aidan knows where I am. Then again I counted three floors and went up four flights of stairs.

“Forums,” he repeats.

“Yeah. Um, occult forums. A lot of them are obviously fake, um, or voodoo type stuff, Santeria or Wiccans, but this one, I just … I felt like it was right. It looked right, when I got here. I felt it was right. I knew you could help me.”

“You felt drawn here,” he says. He nods, satisfied with that answer when he wasn’t before. Suddenly I wonder if he even knows about the internet, and I feel an anxious burst of terror that he might not know about something so basic as the internet.

“Tell me of this that saw you back,” he says. “Your letter told of something that saw you.”

I nod and tuck my hands into my knees again. “I saw a man, a dead man. Car accident, I think, because he was in the street, and he was all beat apart and bloody.” I shudder and close my eyes, feeling sick all over again. My grandfather died in his sleep, so it was parchment paper skin and wispy white hair, dark-staring hollow eyes. Not everyone dies so peacefully as Poppa.

“Normally they never see me. They don’t seem to see anything, they’re just … there. Not even where they died, I don’t think, I don’t know, but this one was in the street. I tried not to look. I didn’t want to look, but I saw him staring at me.” My palms itch with sweat as I rub them on the khaki press of my knees. “I crossed the street, and his head turned to keep watching me. But I don’t - I don’t think it was him. I’m not sure. It didn’t seem like him, the dead guy, I mean--”

He holds up a hand to stop my rambling, mercifully stopping me from needing to explain further. “Something used this dead man’s eyes to see you.”

Cold terror crushes my chest. He says it so casually, as if offering me a perfectly reasonable explanation. I don’t understand any of this, what it means that I see the dead or why he would say something used a dead man’s eyes to watch me cross the street. I wish I was only crazy. I wish so desperately that I was only crazy.

“Tell me of this voice. The one that calls for you.”

It takes me a moment to unglue my tongue from the dry roof of my mouth. “What should I say?”

“Does it call by name?” he asks, tone sharp.

“No. No, not my name. It’s not even words, or at least, I don’t think I understand them if they are. Or I mean I can’t tell you what it said. Just that I heard it calling for me. I - I’m sorry I can’t explain it any better than that. I didn’t understand the words, but I understand what they meant.”

He nods slowly. “I will tell you now, and this is important so hear me well. Never give the truth of your name. What it is you were called, before you knew to call yourself, it is powerful. Hold it close and guard it well. Is this understood?”

“Yes,” I say. “I think so. I mean, It’s like the internet, um, a username. How I signed my letter?” He really doesn’t know about the internet, I can see by the way brows draw tight. I swallow nothing and say, “Understood.”

“If this voice that calls you were to call you by name, you would answer,” he says. “Is this call one you want to answer?”

I hesitate before shaking my head. “No. I guess not. I don’t want anything to do with this. I want - I want it to stop. Can you make it stop?” I lean forward some, hands clutched between my knees. “Can you make me normal again?”

He laughs, and there is no kindness in it. “No,” he says. “If that is the help you ask, go ask someone else. You are as you are. I am not to change that, and you must know this of yourself. Is this understood?”

My shoulders sag with disappointment, but I nod. “Am I in danger? That voice I heard, this call I heard, what is it?”

One of his shoulders lifts and then falls with wanton disregard. “Without knowing, how can I say? You should not have come here. I will help you to forget these things, so you will not know them any longer. That is best, I think, than what you ask of me. I cannot take this from you, is this understood? It is yours now. But I will help you forget it.”

“I don’t understand,” I say. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

“You wish not to see such things, not to hear such a voice call you?”

I nod eagerly, and I see him smile in a way that is neither kind nor cruel.

“It will cost,” he warns. “What you ask of me. It will cost.”

“I don’t care,” I say. “Anything. I just want it to stop. I don’t want anything to do with this stuff.”

He smiles again in that same way, so I don’t know if he’s mocking me or sad for me. “You do not even know what it is you deny.”

“You’re right. I don’t. And I don’t want to know.” I’m deciding this as I say it, but I know it’s true. “I just wanted to know if it was real. Now I know I’m not crazy, but, I think I might go crazy if I have to keep seeing dead people everywhere and hearing voices. Once I saw something, I thought I saw something, like a - a double-vision, of a woman walking only I saw her and I didn’t see her, and I just - I don’t want to see anything like that ever again. I want to be the kid that hit his head and fell. Please, I want to be him again.”

The tears are messy, embarrassing, and I hate them. I hate myself for crying like this. It’s all this relief and fear pouring out of me, so that I bury my face into my hands and hunch low on the folding chair. I’m such a dumb kid and know it, but I want to be a dumb kid.

I want to worry about midterms and college admissions. I want to worry about trying to tell my mom I’d rather ask Aidan to prom than Stacy Gershwin, instead of having to worrying about lying to my mom that everything’s fine, I’m not crazy, it was just stress and now I’m okay. I don’t want to lie awake anymore so scared of what I might see, what I might hear, and what it means. I don’t even want to know why anymore. I just want it to stop.

A hand rubs over the hunched line of my back. It’s the man’s hand, warm and strong, so that I feel a weird flutter that stifles my tears.

“I will help you,” he says. “Ach, you are young. I will help you.”

I stop crying, embarrassed, and peek up from between my fingers. He straightens away from where I’m sitting and nods, firm and precise. As I watch, he walks to the table and pushes aside a stack of books.

“I have money,” I think to say. “If this is expensive. I can pay you.”

When he smiles over his shoulder at me it’s with kindness, finally, so that I feel absurdly guilty for my tears. I pull upright and wipe at my cheeks. I start to smile, but that lasts only until I see him turn around holding a knife in one hand.

“Go to the center,” he says. He nods at the pentagram on the floor, and I am paralyzed with fear.

Somehow I get to my feet. I step gingerly over the red-mud stains that must be blood, old blood, so much blood to have made this, and he is standing there with a knife watching me with that one dark eye. Worse is the pull I feel that tells me where the exact center of the star is, so that I stand precisely with my feet together as if magnetized. I hold my hands straight down at my sides. I don’t tremble, because I can’t move. I lock into place.

He approaches with the knife and bowl but does not cross the sweeping curve of the circle. He walks along it instead, just outside the faded lines. “Are you certain this cost is one you will pay?”

It is only because I can feel the vibration in my throat that I know it is my voice that answers. “Yes.”

“Are you certain this desire is one you want granted?”

“Yes,” the vibration says again.

I am without fear, without thought, without anything other than watching him circle. My eyes don’t move, nothing in me moves except my lungs and heart, but yet I see him walk the circle all the same. He walks the circle around me and then comes forward along one of the slanted lines of the star.

“Look at me,” he commands.

I look. I see his hand lift, the hand holding the knife. I feel nothing, no fear, no concern, no flinch of pain as the knife descends into my eye. There is darkness and wet dripping, this room without shadows fading. I am nothing, I am nowhere, I am under the water again with my head a brilliance of split skin and agony, I am not that moment because that moment is not me and never was, oh I am none of these things and all these things and dizzy with it, oh I am none of these things and nothing, I am nothing, there is nothing.

I wake with a scream. I strangle the sound into quiet as soon as I realize it’s happening, as soon as I realize that I am awake. I don’t remember sleeping. I’m in the room without shadows lying on the floor, the ceiling above so simple and strange with all the light that shouldn’t be seen.

As I lift my head and try to make sense of things, I see him sitting in the corner on the folding chair. His legs are crossed so casually as he watches me. Even the eyepatch seems to be staring, and it’s the closest thing to a shadow in the room.

Memory lashes like a whip, and I slap a hand over my face. I blink several times and feel frantically for anything missing, anything stabbed. I rub at my eyes until tender technicolor blooms over the red-black glow of my closed lids.

“Easy,” he says. The word is thick, not just from his nothing accent. I swallow nothing, there is nothing. I've forgotten nothing and remember everything.

I bolt to my feet. “Is it done?” I think to ask. I scratch dry palms over my khakis and look down at the bright red lines crossing the floor. Bright without shadows, and my loafered feet shuffle against the floor. I feel no different, but something’s happened, he's done something. 

“It is done,” he affirms. He walks to the curtain and casts it back.  “Go home. Do not look close at things you do not wish to see. Try to forget, Abel.”

I leave, I run down three flights of stairs, I burst out the warped metal door into the fading twilight and see it’s been two hours since I left Aidan. Two hours, and three flights of stairs, my hands are shaking as I call him. I'm going to forget all about this. 

“Ethan!” he bursts. “Thank God! Okay, where can I pick you up?”

“Um, same place. Same place, I’m here in the alley --” I hang up and run to the street. I bounce anxiously until Aidan’s rambling old sedan putters up to the curb. I maul open the car door and throw myself inside.

His eyes are as round as his nose. “How’d it go?”

“Fine. Fine -- I think, I don’t know yet. He did something, it’s fine.” I push my feet into the floorboard of the passenger seat and sink down low with my arms crossed. “He said he’d help me, so, I guess I’ll just wait and see. We don’t have to talk about it. It’s fine.”

Aidan drives me home, he stays for dinner, we go to school, I don’t see one dead thing for the rest of the semester except a splattered bug on his car’s windshield. Until the dead cat starts talking to me, everything’s fine.


	3. Chapter 3

Up until now I haven’t seen one dead thing, not one strange thing, nothing bad happened but failing a chemistry midterm and passing the retake, nothing scary except college applications and lying on my boring essay. I bet if I’d written the essay about this dead cat, Harvard might at least want to interview me.

Aidan’s against me trying not to cry. I’m trying not to scream.

The dead cat says again, “Hey, kid.”

I know it’s the cat talking. Don’t ask me how I know it’s this dead cat flopped up against the side of the road that’s talking. I just do, I know it’s the cat, so I’m trying not to scream while Aidan sniffles and acts like he isn’t broken up just as bad at this cat that got hit by a car.

“Should we call someone?” Aidan crouches down a little closer, too squeamish to really look at the stiff-still black lump of fur. “The driver didn’t even stop, this sucks.”

I don’t know what to say, but then the dead cat gets to its feet. I clutch my coat in silence as this dead cat starts moving, but Aidan scrambles back with a gasp. He covers his mouth and stares right at the dead cat like he can see it too.

“Hey, kid. I know you can hear me.” The cat prowls forward with its tail flicked up and dodges underneath Aidan’s hand. One of its front legs doesn’t bend right, it bends too much, and I think I might be sick. I might be crazy again, except Aidan’s still trying to pet the not-so-dead cat.

“Oh, it’s alive! It’s alive!” Aidan laughs and chases the cat up on to the sidewalk. He might be watching this once-dead cat run around, but he can’t hear it. No way he can hear it. “Kitty, here, I won’t hurt you…”

“Meow,” says the cat. “Fucking meow, go away, hiss --” It swats at Aidan’s hand and then darts over to me.

I feel shattered bones moving beneath soft fur as the cat rubs into my ankles. “Pick me up,” the cat demands. I keep standing there not moving, gloved fingers knotted tight into my coat. “Hey, kid, pick me up. Look how fucking cute I am. Don’t you want to -- _dammit_!”

A streak of black twists through my legs and scrambles up onto the hood of a parked car to escape Aidan. I keep staring at the way the cat’s front leg bends too much, the way one side of the cat looks flatter than the other as it turns and twists in a mockery of living flesh.

This cat is dead. This is a dead cat, and it’s talking to me. First dead thing bigger than a bug I see in four months, and it wants to talk to me.

“Ethan, help me,” Aidan says. “I think it’s hurt. We should get it to the vet. It looks like someone’s pet, did you see a collar?” He starts closer to the car with his hands out, murmurs and coos flowing from him to keep the animal calm.

The cat’s head swivels toward me. Ears flicking, tail twitching, pupils massive and gleaming. It lifts a paw to its face and darts out a delicate pink tongue. “Tell your friend to fuck off.” The cat checks Aidan’s progress between washings of its tongue over dense black fur. “Get rid of him so we can talk.”

My breath is ice that cuts from me in white puffs. “Let’s just forget about it,” I say to Aidan. I cannot believe how calm and steady my voice sounds. Maybe not as calm as I think, since Aidan turns to me with a worked knot of concern over his face.

“Let’s just keep walking. Let’s forget about this. I’m going to keep walking, just forget about it -- let’s, let’s just --” Definitely not as calm as I think, the more I listen to my own terrified rambling. I turn sharply and move quick so what starts off as walking turns into full-out running.

I don’t want to talk to a dead cat. I don’t care how cute it thinks it is, I’m not talking to a dead cat. Four months without anything worse happening than a D on my chemistry midterm, and now a dead cat wants to talk to me. It’s not fair. It was too good to be true, what happened in the room without shadows, I knew it was too good to be true. I knew this couldn’t be over just because I wanted it to be over.

“Ethan! Ethan, wait. Ethan --!”

“No!” I shriek and pull my hand away from Aidan when he tries to grab me. It’s a lot of awkward tumbling before we latch into each other to keep from falling. I start pushing him away yelling, “I won’t! I won’t!”

That cat’s nowhere in sight, it’s just my best friend staring at me with big round eyes because I’ve gone crazy again. Four months of being so normal it hurt, because I knew this was going to happen. I just knew it was too good to be true.

I hit a trembling fist into his shoulder even though he’s just standing there letting me push and shove at him. White fogs from my lips as I pant, sob, shake harder and try not to keep crying because I don’t want to be crazy. I don’t want to talk to a dead cat, especially not one that wants to talk to me.

“I don’t want to,” I sob. I let go of Aidan to claw the tears off my cheeks.

“Ethan, we won’t,” he says. “You don’t have to. You don’t have to, okay?”

I don’t see the dead cat anywhere. Just nice cars and nice houses, two nice kids standing here on the sidewalk puffing white clouds into the cold. I wipe my nose into my palm before searching my pockets for a handkerchief. Aidan beats me to it and offers a monogrammed white square, because we are such nice kids and not at all the sort that go around talking to dead things. I blow my nose and sniffle.

“Sorry,” I say.

He’s wide-eyed as he watches me. “It’s okay,” he says. He waits some, turns an anxious glance back to where we were, and then pats at my arm. “Ethan, it’s okay. Um, I saw the cat, too,” he offers. “The cat was real.”

“The cat was dead.” I say it blunt and hard, voice thick from crying, and Aidan frowns worriedly in that way that so clearly says he doesn’t believe me. It’s the same worried look my mom gave me, when it was doctors and tests and then lying to make her think it all worked.

I know it’s crazy, but I keep insisting. “It was dead. It is dead. That was a dead cat.”

His lower lip gets pulled into his teeth. “Okay,” he says. “Well, I saw the cat, it didn’t seem very dead when it got up and started meowing --”

I clap my hands over my ears, scrunch my eyes shut, force the words out around the scared lump in my throat. “It was dead!” I shout. “Dead! I’m not talking to it! I won’t!”

Such a terrible silence follows. Finally Aidan’s fingers brush the arm of my coat, the gesture more heard than felt, and then he gently tugs my hands off my ears. “Okay,” he says. “Well, the cat’s not here anymore. I don’t think it wants to talk to you either.”

He’s trying to be nice. Poor dimple-cheeked Aidan is trying to be nice to his crazy best friend, and I won’t stop screaming about a dead cat. I breathe deep and open my eyes. Still no dead cat, nothing dead or out of place except these two nice kids trying to walk to the clubhouse for lunch on a cold Saturday. I stare around for a bit, each shadow a suspect to suddenly become a lumpy, misshapen dead thing meowing for attention.

“So, it’s okay,” Aidan says. “Ethan, it’s okay.”

“I’m going home.” I turn, shove my hands into my pockets, and then start walking. I need to forget about this.

Aidan keeps pace with me. I know he’s going to say it, even before he timidly offers a smile and gets up the nerve to confront his crazy best friend again. “Um, Ethan? Your house is the other way.”

“I’m taking the long way,” I tell him. I’m not going near where I found the dead cat, or where the dead cat found me -- I know without anyone needing tell me that whatever was calling to me four months ago is back. It found me, it’s in that dead cat, and I’m going home to forget about it.

Aidan decides to come home with me, but he doesn’t say anything about it at first. I realize it when he keeps with me rather than take the turn down his own street. I stop walking and sniffle my cold, stuffy nose at him.

“Aidan, will you go home?” I ask. “Can you just go home? Please. I’m sorry.”

Growing up, Aidan was the kid who never wanted to be home. After school, weekends, holidays, Aidan would walk over and kick around my driveway until I’d run out to play or invite him inside. We’re too nice of kids for it to be an afterschool special kind of reason, it’s just that Aidan has two little half-sisters and a mom who was always busy chasing after them.  

Unlike my mom, who redefines the word helicopter parent. She’s like a fighter plane, zooming over me loud and fast, not hovering so much as knocking me full of concern and then rushing off to the next harmless disaster in her life like making sure the school ice cream social has enough napkins. Her love is viciously affectionate at best, absently neglectful at worst. Maybe absently affectionate and viciously neglectful, if I turned out crazy, so I hate making her think I’m crazy. If Aidan comes home with me, she’s going to know by his worry that my good streak is over.

I just wanted to explain it, or have it explained to me, and Aidan went along with ouija boards and seances and everything else from books and the internet until my mom yelled at him for encouraging me. My mom yelling is her nose twitching while she talks softly about how she isn’t mad, just disappointed, and that she understands but wants you to be different anyway.   

My father yells the same, only he is mad about it, and he really yells. I don’t tell him anything I see, I don’t tell him much of anything at all. He’s rarely home, or I try not to be when he is. I hunch my coat tighter against the brisk grey day and wipe my nose with the back of my hand.

“Aidan, I’m sorry. Can you just go home?”

“Oh.” He shrugs. “Yeah. Or, I could get my car if you wanted to go somewhere.”

I watch a patch of shadow under a car for much too long without saying anything. Assumptions bloom into the silence, and I see them on Aidan’s face when I finally think to look at him again. “I’m going home,” I say. “Just -- forget about it. Forget about it, okay? I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Now I’m the patch of shadow under the car for him to stare at too long. I had four perfect months of assuring him the letter really did work and I was totally fine, nothing dead anywhere. Now I’m screaming about a dead cat that Aidan knows he saw get hit by a car.

He saw it same as me. He must have seen it get hit, go flopping over limp and dead. It was dead, he has to know it was dead I can’t be crazy. I’m not going to talk to anything dead.

Finally Aidan pulls in a breath and nods. “Okay,” he says. “Sure, Ethan. Don’t worry about it. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

We exchange waves and go in separate directions through the neighborhood. Once I think Aidan can’t possibly see, I break into a run. I just want to get home before anything else dead finds me. I went into that room without shadows to do something so incredibly nightmarish that I’m still having nightmares about it. I wanted it to work, I’m going to forget about today.

Soon as my house gets in view I slow into a quick walk. I need to catch my breath. I don’t want my mom to know I ran home again because of something dead. On the porch I take longer than I need to get out my keys. I push inside and love the sickly-sweet floral waft of potpourri just because it’s home.

No one has ever died inside my home, it’s only as old as I am. My parents bought it to put me in, which is always a nice thought even when everything else is falling apart. I rest the back of my head against the door. I’m home. Nothing’s ever died in my home, not even a goldfish or a plant.

“Ethan?” my mom calls.

I pull my head off the door as she walks into the foyer carrying a black lump of fur with bottle-green eyes. My mother in her crisp tailored white linen suit is carrying a dead cat with a smile on her face. The cat twists to the floor and darts to me.

“Hey again, sweetheart,” the cat says. “Miss me?”

“I don’t want a cat,” I say. “Mom, I don’t want a cat.” I don’t look down at the creature rubbing against my ankles.

“Oh, come on,” says the cat. “Look at how fucking cute I am. How can you not want this? Which is your room -- is it upstairs?” The cat leaps away from me and heads for the stairs.

“I heard him meowing outside and thought he might be hurt,” my mom says. “But he seems to get around fine. I already contacted the rescue Shelley co-sponsors. They’ll come pick him up on Monday, Ethan, surely you can put up with one lost cat for that long.”

“Yeah, princess, don’t be so greedy,” the cat says. He wraps around the railing halfway up the stairs.

I stare at my mother because she has betrayed me. She brought a dead thing into our home -- I couldn’t get an iguana for six Christmases in a row, and she’s decided to bring a dead cat inside to play animal rescue with. I couldn’t even keep the goldfish I won at the school fair in the second grade, and she’s decided we’re keeping reanimated roadkill.

“Meow, meow, motherfucker, let’s go,” says the cat. “Get into your room so we can talk.” The broken leg is less noticeable as the cat scrambles up the rest of the staircase. He looks less dead inside my nice, clean house.

I take my shoes off in the entry and then go upstairs because this is a nightmare. I don’t know what else to do except go to my room. I don’t have to talk to the cat just because I’m in my room. If the cat wasn’t real -- wasn’t talking to me -- I’d go to my room anyway.

Maybe this is a new kind of crazy. Maybe I really am crazy and spent two hours wandering an abandoned building while Aidan circled the block in his car. He was willing to do seances and anything else, he went with me to drop off the letter. The cat doesn’t look that dead anyway.

The landing at the second floor extends over the foyer as a bridge of wasted space. As a child I could watch through the bannister as my parents fought in every room but their own. The master bedroom anchors the other end of the chasm. Memory seeps into the architecture of the house, so I spend half the time nostalgic and the other sickened.

My room is NASA posters, little league trophies, a neatly made bed in a well-organized square of some nice lie that my parents want me to be. I try to go along with it because I don’t have anything better. I’ll take things being nice and fake if the alternative is dead things talking.

“Boring.” The cat hops up to my desk and bats several pens out of their orderly lines. He pushes one to the floor. “What kind of teenager are you?”

I sit on the bed. I push toward the center. I try not to look at the cat as he wanders over my desk and steps up onto my closed laptop.

“So, kid, let’s cut right to it. I know you can hear me. Stop dicking around and let’s talk.” The cat settles into a statuesque sit with his tail curled around his feet. “What’s your name?”

“E--”

I slap a hand over my mouth, shove my knuckles against my lips and shake my head.

“Eek, how scary. A talking cat -- get over it,” he says. “Yeah. I’m dead. The cat’s dead, I’m dead -- everyone's dead or dying, that's life. What’s your name, sweetheart? Let’s be friends.”

The cat rises up and springs gracefully onto the bookcase. From there he crosses along to reach the headboard and then down into the pillows.

“I’m -- you.” I get the words out around my hand. I don’t want to remember anything of that strange nightmare after I crossed the curtain, but I do remember everything. I can’t forget one word of the warnings I received from the only person who told me I wasn’t crazy, even if I desperately right now wish I was crazy instead of whispering at a cat -- dead or not.

“I, you, me, yeah. That’s the idea,” the cat says. He saunters closer on tip-toes and walks right across my lap. Up close it’s easier to see the bent twist to the cat’s leg and the broken lumps along its side. Definitely dead, this cat has to be dead.

“I’m not telling you my name,” I say. “You - you can call me something else. Um, Reliabel-five -- just Abel. My name’s Abel.”

Laughter tumbles from the cat as an eerie series of rumbling purrs. “That’s not your name.”

I don’t know why he’s so fixated on my name when he had to have heard Aidan and my mom both using it, but then I remember all those warnings. I set my hand on the cat’s spine as he arches toward me. I manage one stroke over the dense black fur before pulling my hand away. I don’t want to pet a dead cat. I don’t want a dead cat for a pet. This can’t be happening.

“It’s what you can call me,” I insist. “I’m not telling you my name.”

“You’ve been talking to someone,” the cat accuses. He turns in a tight circle atop my thigh, paws poking into muscle and claws catching into the weave of the khaki fabric. “Who the fuck have you been talking to about me?”

“No one. I just met you.” I try to push the cat off my lap and get an ear-flattened hiss for the trouble.

“I’ve been trying to get your attention for a while now, ever since you caught mine,” he says. “I had to be clever about it.” A sound like a bucket of rocks tumbling shakes out of the dead cat as it -- he -- laughs. “Meow, meow. I’m a fucking riot.”

Dimly overlaying the sharp-tongued and distinctly masculine voice is the treble trill of a cat, so I feel crazy again and put my hands over my ears. “I don’t want to talk to you.”

The cat paces sideways off my lap with that bent leg tangled all the worse for the feigned casualness of the gesture. “Too bad, princess, we’re talking. Are you really going to deny me?”

I slide from the bed and back toward my desk. “I know you used the dead man’s eyes to watch me. You - you called for me.”

The cat sits on the spot of rumpled comforter where I was just sitting. He licks his paw again, scratchy tongue grooming in methodical strokes. The cat drags his paw over his crinkly whiskers and round-cheeked feline face. “Yeah, no shit, you stubborn fuck. Been calling at you for a while. I don't like being ignored." 

“What are you? Who are you?” I ask. “Are you a ghost?”

Shattered glass and clattering stone form another loud laugh from the cat. I look to the door worriedly but don’t hear my mom calling. It’s a big house, a big stupid house my parents bought to put their new baby into like that would fix everything wrong with them and their marriage.

“Yeah, kid, I’m a ghost,” the cat says. “Is that how you want to do this? You gotta help me to like, move on, or whatever.”

“Okay,” I say. “How do I do that?” Anything to get rid of this dead thing that wants to talk to me.

The cat looks to be smirking as it watches me, long tail still flicking. “I need a body. You need to kill someone.”

“What? No!”

“I won’t be that picky. Just male, between 20 and 30, must be good looking. Brunette preferred although… maybe I’ll go blonde. No gingers though, and nothing messy. Keep it clean. No headshots.” The cat settles its paws and hunches down into a black loaf.

Each breath is thick as I stand there staring at this - this dead thing. Cat, ghost, voice -- a dead thing, talking to me. A dead thing is telling me to kill people.

“No,” I say. “No. I won’t.” I grab one of the pencils off the desk and hold it in a tight fist.

I know Aidan saw the cat. My mom carried the cat in her arms. What if I’m just crazy, and my mom comes in here to see I’ve stabbed this cat to death? I’ll be shipped off somewhere so nice and expensive, so that my mother will fret and my father will simmer resentment in oppressive waves.

“I won’t kill anyone,” I say. “Find someone else to help you. I’m just a highschool kid. I’ve never even been in a fight.”

“You’re a necromancer,” the cat replies. “Why else do you think I’d be talking to you?”

I move closer to the door. I don’t know what that is, but I don’t want to know anything about it. I'm not going to be a necromancer. I'm not going to talk to dead things anymore. Talking to the cat was a huge mistake.

“Relax. It’ll be easy.  You’re pretty enough. Just lure some perv to a hotel room and choke him out when he’s busy fucking you. Choking’s a good one. Nice and clean.”

I close my eyes. This has got to be a dream. This cannot be happening. I am not going to talk to dead things or become a prostitute serial killer. I turn for the door and then open it before the cat can do more than meow and hiss a quick, “Fuck wait!”

“Mom!” I call. I move into the landing. The cat weaves past me and escapes down the hallway toward my parent’s room and the office. I go to the center of the open overlook and call again, “Mom! Mom, are you home?"

I don’t hear her, so I go for the stairs while juggling out my phone. I fumble it through my fingers and the phone swan dives to a clattering death. Down each stair it goes until coming to a full stop. I hurry down after it and snatch up the garbled mess of a broken LCD and cracked screen.

“Mom!” Screaming it now, because I don’t want to be so crazy that I hear voices telling me to kill people. I can’t be that crazy, I can’t do that to her, and I tried everything I could not to do this to her but if I’m hearing voices that want me to kill people then clearly I’ve failed.

I run out to the garage and see her car’s gone. I pull my phone from my pocket but the screen is nothing but teal and green vertical bars beneath a spiderweb of broken class. I shove the useless rectangular lump back into my pocket and then go to grab my bicycle.

A rich kid like me ought to have a car by now, but my father disapproves so strongly of everything I am that he gets a perverse pleasure from denying me my own vehicle. I guess it’s snobby of me to expect one, because I could go get a part-time job to buy my own, but with my luck I’d end up with dead coworkers and a dead boss all trying to talk at me about killing people, because I’m definitely just crazy.

I assault the kickstand with my foot and then swing into the seat. I hear the cat yelling through the close door, but it’s indistinct rage that I leave behind. I didn’t grab my coat again -- I didn’t even grab my shoes, so it’s just my socks digging into the textured grip of the pedals. The cold cuts through me as a frigid sting, but the harder I pedal and the faster the wind flies over me, the warmer I feel.

I fly down the sloped hill toward the stop sign and then blow right through it without slowing or stopping or even looking. I don’t want to see anything, I don’t want to see anything dead. Momentum carries me partway up the next hill before I lift from the seat and pump a hard, fast rhythm to keep going. I’m not going to talk anymore to dead things, and I’m certainly not going to kill anyone.

I don’t want to see anything dead on the way to Aidan’s house, so I don’t look at anything other than the street in front of me. I need his car, I need to go, I need someone to tell me I’m not crazy or someone to tell me what to do if I am. No, doesn’t even matter, I don’t care why this is happening. I just need to know what to do. Literally first living person I find -- my mom, Aidan, the handsome man in the eye patch, whatever they tell me to do, so long as it’s not kill people.  

Sweat flicks over my brow and gathers under my shirt against the small of my back. I grip into the handlebars on my bike and go faster, racing down the street with my heart pounding. Wind cuts into my face, tugs at my hair, and whips tears from my eyes. It’s so cold without my coat, but I’m burning.

I lean hard into the turn to avoid slowing as I turn onto Aidan’s street. I’m almost there. I see Aidan’s house, I see Aidan’s car. I see it much too late, swerve hard and miss, and cannot believe my best friend just hit me with his car.


	4. Chapter 4

“Abel. Abel, hey. Fuck, I told you not to make this messy.”

The voice sounds to have been calling for a while. I recognize it, I think.

“Kid, come on, you can do this. Get them pretty blue eyes open.”

That dead cat is the first thing I see. He’s about all I can see, staring bottle green eyes and black nose close. Beyond that is the sideways tilt of the street.

The cat speaks again to say, “Abel, hey -- sweetheart, you awake?” A furry head bumps into my forehead.

I think I hear something else, but it’s all buzzing except for this cat’s dead voice that isn’t a cat at all. I don’t think the buzzing is really buzzing either, but thinking is rather hard. I just got hit by a car.  

“You’re dying, kid. I’m sorry. Trust the dead thing on this one,” the cat says. He bumps into me again, insistent and hard. “Tell me your name, Abel, your real name. You don’t have much time.”

I’m pretty sure I can hear Aidan, which makes sense. He hit me with his car -- no way. That’s all I can think, Aidan hit me with his car, this is really happening.

He will be in therapy forever. His life is over. He will never be able to handle the fact that he just vehicular manslaughtered his best friend. He barely kept it together when we watched someone’s lost cat get hit by a car, and now his best friend is the one flopped over against the road not moving. I have made this the worst day in his life.

It was completely my fault. I flew right past that stop sign and cut the turn tight so that I went right into his car. Doesn’t even matter that I deserved it because Aidan’s going to implode under the guilt of killing me. He already gets picked on enough at school, now he gets to be the boy who killed his best friend.

I wonder if they’ll have a school assembly. Oh, my parents are going to have to have a funeral. That big empty house they bought for me, it won’t even have me inside it anymore, just painful memories seeped into the walls. They’ll probably sell the house. My mother is going to cry.

“I don’t want to die,” I say.

All I can see are these bottle-green eyes, these dead eyes with pupils so black as midnight, the fur a dense dark abyss of eternity, everything gone except this.

“I won’t let you,” the cat says. “I’ve been looking for you too long just to watch you bleed out in fucking suburbia.”

“What’s your name?” I ask. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

“You can call me Cain, if you’re going to be Abel.”

“That’s not your name.” I’m barely even too-bright buzzing now, barely even broken limbs and blood. I see this bright glow and darkness, it’s one and the same of bottle-green everything. “What happens if I tell you my name?”

“Lots of things. Your shrieking little friend won’t have to live with the fact he killed you, for starters. You’re not going to like the rest, but you’ll be around for it.”

“Am I going to regret telling you?”

“Definitely,” he says.

There’s a low, chuckling laugh that makes me feel warm. A rough rasping streaks through the cold oblivion I’ve become, what little I have left besides this voice. It’s the velcro-scratch feel of the cat’s tongue. The cat licks again at my cheek. I hear a rumble, feel a vibration, it’s warm, dense fur pushing against me.

“Don’t die, kid. Don’t die a stupid stubborn fuck.” It sounds almost like pleading. “What do you really have to lose?”

“Ethan.” I tell the cat. “My parents named me Ethan.”

The dark bright glow comes closer, becomes everything more than it already is everything. “Sorry, Ethan,” the voice purrs. “You’re really not going to like this.”

My eyes open without having closed, and I see again the sideways tilt of the street. From within me comes a rumbling that shakes through my shattered bones. Agony rips over my muscles as my limbs contort back into shape. I stifle a scream only because I need to draw breath, and I feel my fractured ribs straighten out with a distinct crack-pop cringe-inducing horrorshow of a sound. Only once that’s happened can my lungs spasm into breathing with a ragged-hot rhythm, but I still can’t scream. Nothing seems right, every inch of my body is a broken stranger returning to me as glittering shards of pain.

I hear above that Aidan’s hysteric, “Stay there! Girls stay in the car!” Him screaming at his little sisters, that explains the high-pitched shrieking. It’ll all just been buzzing before.

It didn’t hurt before either, and now I shudder and retch from the sheer onslaught of just how much this hurts. I claw at the asphalt to get onto my hands and knees and see blood, I see so much blood, it’s over my hands and soaked into my shirt, there’s a puddle of it in the street where I’m trying to crawl upright. There’s a dead cat, too, some stiff-still lump of black fur that must have chased me down.

Aidan’s knelt beside me, phone in hand with the call to nine-one-one still going even if he’s given up on listening. He’s twisted around to look at the car and his two little sisters who were screaming about how he’s just murdered someone but have now switched to just incoherent squealing because I’m a dead thing moving around.

“It’s fine,” I say. “Stop your screaming.”

Or rather it’s my lips that move, my throat that vibrates, but the voice is not mine. It’s the dead cat, Cain, inside me speaking this way. This dead thing that found me is using my body. I didn’t want to kill anyone, but I’m the dead thing. I can’t believe this is happening.

Aidan has the exact same sentiment all over his face as he snaps around at me. Tears blot and dribble over his cheeks as he stares at me, sorrow and panic giving back to sudden fear and then cold, desperate horror the more I move around. His trembling fingers press to his lips as he chokes on a hard sob.

I shove up from the street, all the wrong ache and numb fading as my body contorts the broken parts back together. I stand there and roll my neck as vertebrae settle into place. I remember the cat’s pleading, this voice belonging to someone begging me to live --

_Cain?_

“Yeah,” I say. Or, he says. My body again, now in use by Cain -- the once dead thing that called to me, this reanimated roadkill of a cat. This voice telling me to kill people, has become me.

Aidan rushes to his feet because I’m on my feet. “Ethan, oh my God. Oh, my fucking God --” He’s trying to cry through his shock, but it’s just him shaking and tears tumbling fast and thick. “Maybe - maybe you should sit down. The ambulance will be here, I - I called nine-one-one, the ambulance is coming..."

“All’s good here, sweetheart.”

Cain speaking again, from within my body and surely he sounds like me to Aidan, just like how the cat sounded like meowing and I could even hear it, the overlaid treble trill of a cat tangled together with a brash, masculine voice.

I only hear him, Cain, I hear him use my body to say, “I’m fine as can be.”

“I just hit you with my car! Oh, my God, sit down -- you have to sit down. You’re _bleeding!_ ” Aidan decides to grab for me. He takes the bold step of snatching my hand, but Cain pulls my hand away. I’ve lost control of my body. I don’t even know what to do. Cain’s inside me, moving my dead body around -- but I’m still here.

_Am I dead?_

“No,” Cain says.

My head turns to take in the scene of the accident. My bike’s twisted into the front of Aidan’s car with a bent tire and snapped chain. I’m a good twenty feet away, with Aidan and the cat. I’m covered in blood. My brows are thick with it as I scowl, as my body does all these things without me.   

“You should go to the hospital,” Aidan says. “Ethan? Ethan, please, sit down. Okay?” He pulls at me. “God, I am so sorry -- I swear I didn’t see you. I didn’t see you until --”

Cain pulls the other way. “I’m leaving,” he says. “Don’t worry about it. Fuck, is the bike wrecked?”

I get closer to the car. Aidan’s two little sisters are staring at me from the backseat with huge eyes and pointing fingers. I crouch down and jangle the broken bicycle. I stand and kick at it instead, scowling. I turn and start walking, shoulders hunched against the chill cut of the wind.

“Ethan?” Aidan calls after me. His voice grows shrill and terrified. “Ethan!”

“Fuck off!” Cain shouts back. “I’m fine!” In my voice, just like how Aidan heard the cat meowing, he’s going to hear my voice shouting. I am so fucked. This can’t be happening.    

_Can you hear me?_

Cain’s voice grumbles under my breath. “Yeah.”

_Am I dead?_

“No, shut up.”

My gaze flicks back over my shoulder to where Aidan’s gone to corral his sisters, because the oldest is halfway out into the street. They’re ten and eight, always a handful, and screaming and shrieking about how cool that was, now that I’m not dead. Aidan turns to stare after me with tears smeared all over his face, and then I look away. I’m walking fast through yards to take the most direct path home, or at least I hope I’m going home.

I hear the soaring wail of the ambulance siren. I hug along fence lines and cross through the drainage path between yards. Aidan’s going to tell them where I live. If Cain doesn’t realize that, then I’m not sure I should tell him. Or he can read my mind, but I don’t --

I stagger to a stop beneath a power line pole and sink into a crouch. My arms go over my chest as I hunch to pant and shiver. Now that I’m not moving, it’s splitting torture as my broken body beats and breaths. My forehead goes into my arms with a groan.

“Fuck,” Cain whispers. My eyes close, my fist clenches, I’m not sure I can feel the pain as intensely as Cain does, but I’m really not sure of anything. I’m not really sure if I am anything.

I sit there breathing hard and shivering for a while longer. Gradually I settle more comfortably into my own body, or Cain does into mine, but either way it’s easier to be in this strange moment.

Maybe I should go to the hospital, maybe I should try talking Cain into finding the ambulance or at least talk him into going back to Aidan. I was just struck by a car. My ribs, that horror-snap twist of them mending together, I think about that and how much blood I left behind for Aidan to stare at and cry. I might puke, I even heave and gag as I recall striking the car, colliding into metal and bone shattering, pain -- what is happening? How am I not dead?

_Help me, where I am -- am I dead? Am I dead? Did I die?_

“Stop it,” Cain grits out. My teeth are clenched. I’m shaking, shivering, trembling so wretchedly that it’s nearly spasms. “Abel, stop it. Calm the fuck down.”

_I want my body back. I want my body if I’m not dead then how come I can’t move, how come you’re --_

“Shut up!” Cain hits a fist into the dirt. “Abel, just shut the fuck up.”

_….my name is Ethan._

“I’m calling you Abel. You’re calling me Cain. We’re not using real names, haven’t you learned fucking anything?” He breathes hard through the shaking until it lesses, until I become calm so my body does as well.

“I’m not any happier about this than you are, princess,” Cain says. “When I said I wanted a body I didn’t mean yours. What good are you to me like this?”

_I don’t know. I don’t know what that is. I don’t know --_

“Shut up,” Cain snaps. He opens his eyes and leans back into the pole, so I see the stretch of hazy February sky above the undulating rooflines of the surrounding neighborhood. His voice softens, sounds more like my own without the sharp bite of his anger. “I know you don’t know, kid. Just shut up for now.”

He sits there for a while longer in my body, fist clenching and unclenching so that I pay attention to the rise and fall rippling waves of suffering torment. I only see where Cain puts my eyes, and he just keeps looking at the sky and then closing his eyes through the worst of the anguish. I guess it’s not easy getting my near-dead body put back together like this.

I don’t hear the wail of the ambulance siren anymore. I wonder what Aidan’s thinking, what he must be thinking. I bet that dead cat’s still back at the crash scene, too, so that he’s going to start questioning his own sanity except for his little sisters squealing and shrieking about him killing me. How am I going to explain this? Am even going to be able to explain it? As in, will I get my body back? Am I dead? I must be dead. I can’t move, Cain has my body, this dead thing that’s found me and taken my body doesn’t seem in a hurry to give it back.

“Abel, you’re fine,” Cain growls. As my fingers flick over my cheeks, I feel tears that don’t seem like mine -- or don’t seem like Cain’s, rather. They are mine, not his, that’s right. I’m making better sense of this now I think. He says again, “You’re fine.”

_I don’t really think this is fine._

“You’re not dead. What more do you want?”

_My body back, I guess. My life back, I want my life back. I want to be normal. I want you to go away._

Cain chuckles. Low, dangerous, and not all amused. “Too late. You’re my bitch, now. That’s what you get for giving your real name to a demon.”

My shoulders push against the pole for leverage and support as I stand. My head rolls limp and heavy with a groan as I set a hand against the pole as well, turning into it like a drunkard clutching the wall. My knees quiver as Cain grits back a hissed curse and swallows, because I think both of us are fighting queasiness at the dizzying roil and heave of the ground. I’m fighting panic as well, because did Cain just refer to himself as a _demon?_

I think I understand more of this now, I think I’m making better sense of what’s me and what’s him, even if I don’t know what he is. He can’t be a demon. I can’t be a necromancer. None of this can be happening, I would rather just be crazy. Crazy and in shock, so that I’m up and walking around like this despite being hit by a car. It happens, people can do all kinds of unnatural and weird things while it still being real and not demons and necromancers and handsome men in eye patches, those are clearly just my delusions, my hallucinations, I am obviously crazy. I am a crazy seventeen-year-old developing schizophrenia or acute psychosis or any other whispered thing to make my mother cry again.

“Abel,” Cain groans. “Abel, calm down. If you fight me then we’re both going to get fucked up worse than we already are. I’ll give your body back, just get your shit together.”

_You will? You’ll give it back?_

“Yeah, sure. Just shut up.” Cain pushes off from the pole and staggers forward. Each step falls into place with less weaving and swaying the further he walks in my body -- as he walks. He’s got control of things, so I try to stay calm like he says.

He does get steadier, seems stronger and more sure of how to use my feet to get moving. I fade further, become just observations on what’s happening as Cain starts walking again. It’s between yards and around fences, shoving through hedges and walking along the top of a rock-walled garden. I’d bet anything this was the path Cain took as a cat trying to chase me down.

All my suspicions prove correct as Cain wanders to my street and there’s two police cars waiting. They’re parked crookedly at the bottom of the drive with the officers nowhere in immediate sight. I might hear Aidan shouting my name, I might hear the police shouting my name, except I’m not sure Cain can hear my name so I can’t really hear anything at all. It’s still confusing, but I try to be calm about it.  

“Well, fuck,” Cain says. He stops and looks at my house, at the police cars. “I’ll let you handle this one. Remember to stay calm.”

_What?_

I only thought it hurt before, but a split-second shatter of brilliant agony spreads over every nerve just like striking into the front of Aidan’s car all over again. I feel cold air suck into my lungs with a gasp, and then I feel more -- such small things, so many things I was missing without realizing it, indescribable and insignificant pieces of myself that latch into place as if magnetized.

My eyes open without having closed, and it’s me who blinks the wet sting of tears and gasps again in a way that’s shuddering and desperate. I crouch down and then set a hand into the grass of my neighbor’s yard. I lean forward struggling to catch my breath, struggling to catch my balance, my body my own again to move as I want.

I have to stay calm. I latch onto that before confusion can rip me apart again. I need to stay calm and focus on everything that’s me, everything I can feel, everything that’s mine and not dead, not this dead thing I know is still with me -- still inside me.

_Got it, kid?_

Cain, that’s Cain, his voice inside my head now whispering at me all rough and near-amused, mocking even though I think there’s a hint of concern there as well. I have a sense of him, in this so-strange way where now our positions are reversed. I’m the one moving and he’s only this whispering voice. I need to stay calm about this, which is almost asking the impossible except I just got hit by a car and now I’m up and walking around fine. I painfully am aware of just how possible the impossible has become.

“Cain?”

 _Right here, sweetheart_ , he says. There’s a laugh to it that rumbles around inside me almost pleasantly, almost feels warm. He's calm about this, at least one of us is calm about this.   

“What should I do?” I turn my head some toward the sound of my name -- definitely Aidan screaming for me, echoed by the drifting call of a male voice I don’t recognize. One of the police, or the paramedics, everyone trying to find me because I just got hit by a car.

“Cain, what do I do?”

_Whatever the fuck you want, princess. It’s your shitty life that I just saved. Have fun with it._

“That’s not very helpful,” I mumble.

I pull the bloodstained fabric of my shirt away from my body and look down the neckline at the smooth, entirely normal-looking skin of my bare chest. I feel along my head where there’s dried blood sticking my hair into stiff clumps, but I can’t find any spots that are tender. I find the bumpy scar from where I hit the railing on the boat years ago, but I don’t find from where all this blood spilled. It doesn’t hurt much, that’s nice at least, I can’t believe how much it doesn’t hurt. I can’t believe I’m not dead.

“Thanks,” I whisper softly. “Cain? Thanks. I didn’t want to die.”

_Yeah, no shit. Dying sucks._

I sigh, square my shoulders, and walk toward my house. I don’t know what else to do except find the people are trying to find me -- all these living people who are going tell me what to do. I need to find Aidan, find the police, find the paramedics who I’m going to confuse so terribly because I’m covered in my own blood but unharmed, unbroken, undead.

  



	5. Chapter 5

“I don’t know,” I say again. “I don’t remember.”

It’s all I’ve been saying, the entire time, because I think if I say it long enough they’ll start to believe me. I sure try my best to sound believable, or at least I try to sound like I’m not lying. I don’t want to explain that a demon called Cain healed my body and is now inside me making lewd comments about the nurse’s ass.

The nurse rips opens the velcro of the blood pressure cuff and types some numbers into the computer. I’m asked again now I feel, to which I say, “Okay,” because that’s all I keep saying. Just simple things, that I’m okay or that I don’t know. I’ll be cooperative because I don’t want to know what happens to crazy teenagers who don’t listen to police and EMTs and doctors who all want to know just what exactly happened to make Aidan scream at the 911-operator that he killed his best friend, to please hurry, send an ambulance, he’s so sorry but please hurry.

I’m certainly not dead or dying now. I want to tell the nurse to put the blood pressure cuff back on me just so we both can feel the hard beat of my blood, the steady in-and-out puff of my breath. I’m alive, I’m a living thing with all my limbs under control, my voice speaking only what I want to say.

I’m trying not to say anything crazy. I know this is a crazy situation, because Aidan and his sisters must have explained about how I came flying around the turn on my bike, how I collided with the car head-on and then all that limp-limbed flopping and rolling into the pavement. All that blood on my clothes, except I’ve been stuck into a hospital gown now. They let me wash my hands, scrub my arms clean of crimson smears. I want a shower but I’ll settle for getting my hands clean at least.

I’m taken for tests, loaded into a CAT scan, they take blood, Cain bitches about everything, I try to ignore him even though that’s just about impossible. I tell them I don’t know why there was blood, why I showed up bloody without a scratch on me. I say I don’t know what I did, why I ran away from Aidan -- I say I don’t remember, and that I’m okay.

The police found me first, or rather I found the police first, when Cain gave me back my body. I wandered up to the police cars and found one of the officers waiting. He radioed to the others, I stood there quietly and told him I was okay. I cooperated, I’m too nice of a kid not to cooperate with the police. I heard Aidan but didn’t see him, didn’t really get a look at him, just heard him rushing up as they were packing me away in the ambulance.

Worst part is when my mom shows up. I tell her just the same, that I’m okay, I don’t know what happened, she starts to cry -- she’s been crying. I wonder if Aidan called her or the police. I sit there with my hands pressed between my knees, being quiet and cooperative because I don’t want to be the kind of crazy they need to keep longer for observation. I just want to go home, but I’m too scared to say anything more than what nothing I’ve already said.

My mom rubs her hand between my shoulders as she stands next to the exam table and listens to the doctor try to explain this. They can’t explain it, of course they can’t, because you just need one look at Aidan to know he wouldn’t be capable of pulling a prank like this, nor would he want to, and I’m certainly not known for my practical jokes. I’m known for being crazy, so I’m not sure why everyone seems so surprised that I’ve turned into something impossible to understand or explain.

It’s just my mom in the room with me now. I pick at my cuticle so I don’t have to look at her, but I can still hear her delicate sniffling as she tries not to cry about her crazy son being so crazy they can’t even diagnose him.

I get a hug from her, rather than a lecture. “I’m glad you’re okay,” she says. “Ethan, honey, I’m glad you’re okay.”

I nod into her shoulder and put my arms around her.

_Your mom’s kind of hot for an older broad._

I try to ignore Cain’s voice. I don’t want anyone to know I’m hearing voices -- hearing a voice, Cain, he’s still inside me even if I’m the one controlling my body again. All these impossible things that have to be real, because nothing’s wrong with me according to all these tests. Cain doesn’t show in the CAT scan, he’s not a dark spot in my brain, not some tumor they can cut away.  

Since nothing’s wrong except everything, I get to leave. My mom has a fresh change of clothes for me. I get dressed in the bathroom and try not to look at the dried blood in my hair. I slip out of the hospital gown and get wrangled into socks, underwear --

_Nice dick._

“Cain, please. Don’t,” I whisper. I glance at the door, because my mom’s just on the other side of it waiting for me. “I don’t want to talk to you.”

_Tough shit. I’m talking to you anyway. What else do I have to do?_

I close my eyes and finish getting ready without letting Cain see anymore of my body, even though I guess he’s already seen everything. I guess he sees everything, like how I saw everything when he was the one in control of my body. I don’t want to think about that, because it’s just so crazy, but it happened or my hallucinations are becoming impossibly real.

I finish getting dressed and go with my mom out to the car. I turn around in my seat some to watch the hospital disappear, and then I stay turned around over the console to look out the back windshield. I’m looking for dead things. Surely I’m going to see a lot of dead things around a hospital.

“Ethan?” she asks. “Everything okay, sweetie?”

“Yeah.” I turn back around. I sink down into my seat some. It’s only once I reach into my pocket that I remember. I turn around again and pluck the hospital bag with my stuff in it from the backseat. I find my pants and dig the rectangular lump out of the pocket.

“Mom? Mom, I broke my phone.” I wait until she’s at a red light and show her the shattered LCD screen. “Can we get me a new one?”

She glances at me with a careful expression. “Now?”

“Um, yeah. I guess. Yeah, now,” I say. “Can we stop at the store on the way home?”

“No,” she says. “Honey, no, you need to go home and rest, okay?”

It’s her patronizing, my-son-is-crazy tone that lets me know that things are not okay. Nothing is okay about what’s just happened, but since I wasn’t hurt and seemed calm they’re letting me go home.

“Okay,” I say anyway. I try to sound appropriately meek, proportionally disappointed, not too eager and not too defiant. I try to sound normal, whatever normal should sound like for someone who just got hit by a car and was covered in blood but doesn’t have a cut or broken bone or bruise to show for it.

My mother glances over again. She doesn’t say anything more for the drive home and neither do I. There’s no police this time at the bottom of the drive, no Aidan screaming for me, not even a dead cat, just my mom pulling her car into the garage and then leading me into the house.

I still want a shower to rinse the dried blood from my hair, except now I know that Cain’s watching everything I do so it’s too weird. I take the shower anyway and get griped at by Cain for how much I close my eyes, how I just scrub shampoo into my hair, stare at the tile rather than look at myself, and hurry out of the shower and into clothes without looking at too much in particular, especially not my naked body.

_Your parents must be loaded. What’s your dad, a lawyer? Wealthy banker? This house is top-shit swanky._

I hate Cain’s running commentary on my life. I try to ignore it as best I can as I get changed into pajamas. I get settled into bed, and it’s just like being sick as a very young child. My mom brings over my laptop, the television remote, a glass of water, some slices of toast. She fusses to bring me extra pillows and even digs my grandmother’s ceramic bell from the china cabinet to set on my nightstand. I don’t know why she bothers, since I can’t ring the bell hard enough to summon her if she leaves the room. I guess her mom did this for her when she was sick, so she does it for me when I’m sick, and I’m too nice of a kid to tell her it doesn’t make me feel any better.

“Thanks, mom,” I say instead. I open my laptop and try to look painfully normal.

My mom runs her hand over my damp hair with a frown on her face, worried and disappointed all in one stress-inducing expression. I try not to look at it. I click on random emails I’ve already read before starting to compose one to Aidan.

She moves to the doorway to watch me, so I type and do my best to look okay. Sure I was just hit by a car, but I’ve crashed my bike before coming down that hill. There’s a scar on my knee to prove it. The doctors said I was fine, nothing broken, nothing bruised. Not a scratch on me.

I write an email to Aidan to explain my phone’s broke. I even say I dropped it down the stairs before the wreck. That’s how I refer to it, just _the wreck_ and then swiftly say I’m okay. What else am I going to say?

Sorry I hit your car, I write that. Delete it. Bring it back up with a quick control-plus-zee flick.

_What’s this? How are you doing this?_

I glance up at my mother, still standing in the doorway. Slowly I finish typing the rest of the email without really pulling my eyes off her long. I don’t want to look at the screen, can’t say anything to Cain while she’s watching me. It’s probably suspicious I’m watching her, but in all fairness she’s the one standing vigil over her crazy son.

_This is a computer, isn’t it? I’ve heard of these. Do you have the internet?_

I’m not going to think about how crazy that is. Everything in my life right now is literally the worst thing to ever happen to me. Right now I am sitting here writing an email to my best friend apologizing for fatally colliding with his car, and the reason I’m alive to do so is because a demon calling himself Cain has taken up residence inside my body.

But everything’s fine, I tell Aidan. I went to the hospital, and now I’m home. I send the email and then just click and drag rectangles around on my desktop wallpaper. Periodically I type a few random words into the search bar before deleting them.

“Ethan,” my mom says.

_Tell her to fuck off._

“Is there anything you want to tell me, sweetie?”

_Tell her you’re --_

“I’m fine, mom. Really. It’s okay.” I smile. “I feel totally fine.”

Her expression isn’t one that believes me, but I’m sitting there clean, unbroken, completely alive and totally fine. Doctor-verified that there’s not a scratch on me, so that no one can explain it and now Aidan must be going crazy.

I check my email and there are three, all from Aidan, various ways of him asking if I’m okay, telling me he’s sorry, and first asking and then just declaring that he’s coming over. By the time I’m reading them, though, the doorbell rings. My mother turns from the doorway and disappears into the hall.

_So about getting me a different body. It needs to be --_

“No,” I whisper.

_You want me inside you forever? I’m not going back into a cat, Abel. No fucking way._

“Please, no. I’m not killing anyone.”

I sink low into the bed and just know that Aidan’s about to burst into my room. I keep my eyes on the door and make sure to hush to Cain just as quiet as I can. I’ve tried thinking the words, but he can’t hear me unless I can hear me -- which makes just as much sense as the rest of this.

_Got any enemies? Rival … blonde kid, or something. Shit, your world is getting too complicated. I miss the days of relentless slaughter._

“I’m not killing anyone.”

I’m curled down into the extra pillows my mom brought when Aidan does in fact explode into my room. He’s loud enough to drown out whatever Cain might say in return.

“Oh my God, Ethan! I’m so fucking sorry --” He’s already sobbing, maybe he hasn’t stopped crying since the moment he saw me swerve straight into his car. He rushes at the bed to hug me, and there’s a weird pause before I pat at his back in return.

“I’m fine. Aidan, I’m okay. See?” I try to get him off me so I can spread my arms out, push the blankets down to show that I’m unbroken, unbruised, nothing wrong with me except Cain’s voice inside me.

The voice telling me to kill people, but at least Aidan doesn’t have to try living with the fact he killed his best friend, and my mom doesn’t have to bury her son. So, it really is okay. I’m okay with this.

I get my arms around Aidan, squeeze him close like when we were young. Before I started to realize I didn’t like girls, that I liked hugging Aidan a bit too much. I couldn’t make him live with having killed me -- I’d be okay with dying otherwise, except for making my mom cry. Making her wear black -- she hates wearing black. I remember her telling me the day of Poppa’s funeral, during those last few hours when everything was truly normal.

Aidan backs off enough to look at me. He scrubs his face with his sleeve and then shucks out of his coat. He slings his coat over my desk chair. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, my mom -- your mom -- everyone said you were okay, but --”

He saw me, he must have seen me bleeding and broken. He was right there when Cain clawed my battered body up from the crimson-soaked pavement. I stare at him. He saw the dead cat. He saw me dying. He saw the cat get up, he saw me get up.

I don’t want to sound crazy. I don’t want to ask. I’m scared to say anything too strange now that there’s a voice inside me telling me to kill people. Something incredibly suspicious, wrong, and unnatural just happened because no one can explain this except maybe me and Cain -- more Cain than me -- but I’m definitely not going to say anything crazy to doctors or my mom or even Aidan.

_How about this dude? Get me his body. I bet even you can take him in a fight._

“No,” I say. Almost shout it, really, because I am not going to kill Aidan or let Cain take over Aidan’s body. I’ll keep Cain inside me, if that’s the alternative. I’ll - I can’t, I’m not going to kill anyone. I’m not going to kill Aidan especially.

“No?” Aidan echoes.

I shouldn’t have said that, so I have to think quickly. “Um, no, I’m okay. At the hospital they checked for anything, but I’m totally fine. Not even a bruise.”

_Why not? Sure, he’s not much to look at, but I’ll take what I can get._

Aidan shakes his head. He looks to the door to check for my mother before coming up to sit cross-legged on the bed with me. “Ethan, I know what I saw,” he says. It’s difficult and thick for him to say. “I saw your femur sticking out of your leg. I saw so much blood -- your chest, your head, I saw -- I heard you _gurgling_ \-- God, Ethan.” He shakes his head again and can’t say anything further.

_It’ll be easy. Do you have a belt or anything else to choke him with? Nothing messy. I can’t piece together anything right now. You won’t even need to hide the body. I’ll put it to use right away._

I’m not going to listen to Cain, and I’m not going to kill Aidan.

Aidan rubs at his cheeks and curls then his fingers under his chin. He’s quiet as he looks at me expectantly, because he wants me to confess so he doesn’t have to ask.

_I bet you’re hot for him. Is that why?_

“Yeah,” I say at last. It’s an answer that suits Aidan and Cain both. I don’t dare keep quiet any longer, because that’s just as suspicious as saying something crazy.

“How?” Aidan looks to the door and then shifts closer. He whispers, because I was whispering. “Ethan, what happened?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “But I’m okay now.”

_I figured you for a flamer. Well go for it, kid. Tap that ass._

I look anywhere but at Aidan. I wish I could tell Cain to shut up.

_He’s cute, if you’re into fucking teddy bears. I knew a man once who fought a bear. I don’t think he fucked it, but he was a crazy cossack so anything’s possible._

I’ve been staring at anything other than Aidan and trying to ignore Cain for too long, because I hear Aidan whisper as if repeating himself, “Ethan? Ethan, you can tell me. If something happened, you know you can tell me.”

I’m not going to tell Aidan about the demon inside me who wants his body. I told him about the letter and everything I was seeing, but I can’t get him involved in this. I shake my head and then push my hands over my ears, because I am so frightened to hear Cain tell me anything else. I told him my name, he took over my body, I don’t want to kill Aidan.

“I won’t kill you,” I tell him. “Aidan, I won’t --”

_Abel, you dumb piece of  --_

“What?” asks Aidan.

It’s all these things at once before everything pushes and pulls in a sideways shiver where I go away without moving at all. I don’t have breath to cry out for the agony of being ripped aside, because my voice belongs to Cain again, My body belongs to Cain, he thrusts into everything I was so that I am nothing and he says, “Nothing,” for me.

“For hitting me with your car,” Cain says. “I won’t kill you for it. No hard feelings.” He shrugs with lazily self-assurance that says he could manage carry through his threats, even using my wimpy body.

“What?” asks Aidan again.

Cain is doing a horrible job at being me.

“You heard me. There’s nothing much else to talk about, hm?” My hand goes against Aidan’s thigh. I lean in closer. I look at his lips.

_No. No, Cain, don’t. Don’t._

It’s his low rumbling chuckle, a purring-growl sound that puts wide circles into Aidan’s eyes. He just stares with a slow-growing expression of horror as I rub my hand over his leg and move closer. I press my lips into his and hum brisk, thrumming approval. My body is hard and wanting, my heart is heavy and throbbing.

_Cain, no, not Aidan -- please, don’t do this._

I gasp, Aidan gasps, he pushes but I pull. “Ethan?” he squeaks. His face is bright-red, I pull him against me even though the door is still open, my mother is somewhere in the house, I can’t do this to Aidan, I can’t do this thing that I’m doing.

I kiss him like I’ve always wanted to kiss someone, like I’ve always wanted to kiss any pretty boy on TV or on the street. All the times I jerked one out thinking of just some generic man or maybe some specific one -- all those imagined desires, none of them match the reality of kissing Aidan.

My fingers push through his hair as I bend him to me and he flutters, sighs and clutches back so that I’m shocked and Cain laughs ominously.

_Don’t do this to Aidan, he’s my best friend. And my mom’s home, you’re going to get caught -- Cain, please, don’t do this._

Distracting me is just how much my body is responding, how eager Cain is for this -- that Aidan seems eager for this. I’m horrified, this is a nightmare, I can’t believe this is happening.

Cain pushes him into the bed. “Fuck, I haven’t gotten laid in so long,” he groans.

“What?” Aidan scrambles back, but my hand reaches out and snatches his arm. Fear flashes over his expression, and I feel Cain shift as I do. We both react, and my hand snaps away, I let him go, I am not going to do this to my best friend.  

“No!” I shriek. It’s a husky-dry spit of a sound. “No! Won’t! I won’t!”

I stagger off the bed. I fall to my knees and dry-heave, clawing at the carpet as I writhe and moan. Chaos burns the echo of Cain and I overlapping each other with vicious, destructive discord. I hug my hands over my head and hunch into my knees with a hard shudder.

I don’t want my mom to hear, I need to stop screaming -- but I wasn’t screaming, I was quiet, I am being quiet. Aidan heard just because he’s right here. He also saw me bent and broken in the street, he did all that seance stuff with me before my mom made him stop, and he knew about the letter. Still I’m not going to let Cain get him involved in this, even though Aidan’s already thick in this mess.

I feel Aidan’s hands against my back. It’ just one more rough-tumble shatter of sensation that makes me shiver and choke on my own saliva, on each panted breath, because Cain and I are fighting for control. Something snaps so that I flinch, Aidan flinches, and I clench my fists against the shock of fitting back into my own body.

_Fuck, okay! Chill the fuck out, sweetheart._

“You leave him alone,” I say to Cain.

“Ethan?” Aidan whispers. He hasn’t started screaming for my mom yet, he’s just knelt here next to me with his hands on my shoulders, our thighs pressed close, he’s pressed close and trying to comfort me with the slow rub of his hand.

I kissed him. He’s my best friend, and I kissed him. Cain kissed him. Cain, as me, so Aidan thinks it was me -- he thought it was me and kissed me back.

I jump to my feet. This can’t be happening. “I can’t believe you did that. Why did you do that?” I’m demanding this of Cain, I need him to answer me. I grip my hands into my hair, like I could possibly grab Cain. “Where’s the cat?” I ask suddenly. “Aidan, where’s the cat?”

“I - I guess I hit it, too, I don’t --” He’s too bewildered for words. I just kissed him. We were kissing, I kissed Aidan.

_I’m not going back in the cat._

“Well I’m not killing Aidan! Or fucking him!”

From the floor, my best friend watches as I go completely crazy on him in ways that are probably terrifying. I don’t blame him for looking scared when I’m standing here talking to myself about killing him and/or raping him. He’s still kneeling on the floor but now he’s leaned back from me. His eyes are wide, round and staring.

_Abel, calm down._

He doesn’t sound calm, this demon doesn’t sound calm even though he’s trying to tell me what to do. I stagger and think I might gag again, think I might really vomit, it’s an all-over sensation of clammy where I’m hot and freezing. I grip into the bedpost and vibrate like I’ll rip in two, which is exactly what it feels like in that moment.

_Abel! Calm the fuck down._

“No! I’m not! You shut up! Just shut up!” I put my hands to my ears, but he’s inside me now. This demon is inside me and wants me to kill Aidan, or wants me to fuck him, and I don’t want to do either. “I won’t do it! I won’t! I won’t!”

Aidan runs to the door, disappears through it. He’s probably in the hall checking from the overlook for my mom, so I expect to hear him start screaming for her. Instead Aidan rushes back inside and gets the door closed. He has no survival skills, he would absolutely be the first to die in a horror movie, my best friend is a total idiot to get himself alone in this room with a crazy person like me.

“Okay,” he tells me. He takes hold of my wrists to pull my hands off my ears. “Ethan, it’s okay, you don’t have to. We’re not going to. I really don’t want to either,” Aidan says. He smiles with a short, nervous laugh.

I brace for Cain to say something, but he’s silent. I let Aidan tug my hands off my head. I stare at him, shoulders heaving as I catch my breath, as I fight against sobs. Aidan gently pushes me back into the bed.

“It’s okay, Ethan. You don’t have to,” he says. He watches as I crawl back into the bed, and he doesn’t sit on it with me this time. He fiddles with the ceramic bell instead and doesn’t look at me.

Finally Aidan sets the bell down and picks up the television remote. He finds literally the first channel that isn’t a commercial and makes us both suffer through a procedural drama neither one of us knows anything about. It’s awkward. He sits in the desk chair, I stay on the bed, Cain doesn’t say anything. It’s painfully awkward.

I hear the soft sigh that indicates Aidan’s about to say something. He’s waited for the show to end, even though neither one of us possibly could have been following it. Aidan gets up from the desk and comes to set the remote on the bed next to me.

“I’m not gay,” he says.

“I am.”

_Knew it._

To his credit, the surprised, “Oh,” is completely appropriate for the moment. Of all the millions of ways I thought I might ever come out to anyone, especially Aidan, this has got to be somewhere firmly along the spectrum of the worst.

Aidan bites at his lip for a moment before asking, “Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh. Um, okay.” He shrugs. “Well, um --”

“There’s a demon called Cain inside me who made me kiss you. I didn’t want to. I wouldn’t, um, I don’t like you that way. Not that you’re unattractive, or anything, just --”

_You are the dumbest fucking necromancer I have ever met._

“No, no, I - I get it,” Aidan rushes to say. “Ethan, I - I get it. It’s okay.”

Which means he doesn’t believe me, but I’ve scared him so badly that he just wants me to shut up and not say anything else crazy about demons and killing him. He stares at me, I stare at him, we both have to look somewhere else, and it’s so fucking awkward I want to cry. I can’t believe I kissed him. I can’t believe any of this is happening, except it is. It’s all happening.

I bring my knees up to my chest. “I hate you,” I whisper to Cain. “Get out.”

“What?” asks Aidan. He sounds confused and devastated, so it’s obvious he heard me. I wasn’t quiet enough, or I’d forgotten he was there, that my voice actually made noise enough for him to hear me.

I shake my head and press my forehead into my knees. “Not you.”

_Surely you don’t mean me, sweetheart? I thought we were going to be friends._

I grip my knees tight, just this ball on the bed for Aidan to stare at, I’m sure he’s staring at me again even though I just see the red-black press of my closed eyes.

“You should go, though. Aidan? Just, leave. Tell my mom I’m asleep.” I unfold from my knees and shift down into the bedding. I don’t look at Aidan as I roll over and pull the blankets high over my head.

“Oh. Um, okay. Sure. Hey, Ethan? I won’t tell anyone. Um, what you said. About --”

“Okay,” I say. I interrupt him quick, because I don’t want to know which crazy thing I said or did that he plans to keep secret. I don’t want to know what bothered him the most, the kiss, that I’m gay, that I talked about killing him, that I tried to explain about Cain but Aidan doesn’t believe me. I’m too crazy to be believed, even after everything I know he saw.

“Sure, Aidan, thanks. See you later,” I say. I tuck deeper into the bedding.

I hear Aidan get his coat and then go to the door. “Bye, Ethan,” he says quietly.

I don’t say anything back, I’m going to pretend to be asleep. I ignore Cain, ignore my mother when she comes in to check on me, I’m not going to leave this bed to kill anyone or get laid or do anything else Cain wants. Maybe I really will sleep, just to bring to a faster end what has been the worst day of my life, and that’s when I first start to think maybe I’m the one who needs to be killed.  

 


	6. Chapter 6

I spend Sunday hanging around my house with my mother, which is weird and suspicious because I’m used to having the house to myself. She’s always finding excuses to be busy, same as my father, because neither of them wants a divorce even though they’d probably be happier for it. I don’t want to die, but I think everyone is going to be a lot happier for it. Even if my mom will have to wear a black dress she hates at my funeral. So long as Aidan isn’t the one to kill me, I think it’ll be okay.

That’s about what I’ve decided by the time my mother asks if I’d like to go to the store now to pick out my new phone. I don’t want to go, but I get in her car, we drive to the store, I turn over my phone with the busted LCD-screen, I get a brand new phone and pretend to be excited that it’s the latest model.

_Does this thing have the internet? Look at something else. How many times are you going to look at the settings?_

I ignore Cain, even though he won’t shut up. I send a text to Aidan letting him know I got a new phone, and he texts back immediately something enthusiastic and normal, like yesterday’s awkwardness never happened. I stand there messing around with the phone while my mom finishes paying for everything.

When she’s done my mom sets her hand on my back to get my attention. She’s been touching at me all day like I’m a small child that she needs to keep track of and not a teenager. “Do you like it?” she asks. “Is it the one you wanted?”

I’m reminded of all the times she’d buy me a new toy just because I’d be crying too much about my parents fighting again. New toy, ice cream, my mom would do lots of things to try assuring me everything was okay and our lives were normal and nice.

“Yeah. Thanks, mom.” I flash her a smile.

_Ask your mom if she’ll buy you a gun._

We leave the store, and I play with my phone in the car rather than look out the windows. I don’t want to know what I might see. I don’t want to know if I’m still going to see dead people everywhere now that I have one inside me. Aidan and I text back and forth about which phone I got, if I’m going to jailbreak it, if I’m going to school tomorrow, and I tell him I don’t know to most his questions. That’s all I want to say to anyone anymore, is that I just don’t know. Someone who isn’t Cain needs to start telling me what to do, because all Cain wants to do is kill people and fuck.

_Who else you got? Anyone you hate enough to kill for me? Look, I’ll even do the actual killing if you just keep fucking calm while I’m in control._

I wait until we’re back at the house, until she’s tucking her keys back into her purse as we walk into the kitchen from the garage. I try to sound casual about it, appropriately hopeful but not too eager, maybe a little bored, painfully normal. Just as normal as I can sound.

“Mom? Can I borrow the car?”

_Oh, we going out?_

She looks at me with a soft, worried frown.

“I’ll be home before dinner,” I say. “I want to go to the bookstore.”

_Boring._

“You should have said something while we were out,” she says. “I would have taken you.”

I shrug. I try to look innocent about this, like there’s nothing suspicious about me wanting to borrow her car even though I never have. Aidan’s been driving me everywhere since he turned sixteen, because his grandparents bought him a car for his birthday. It wasn’t a new car, he’s just got that old sedan that rumbles but hasn’t ever broken down on him.

_Are you old enough to drive? I know how to drive. I know all about cars. Give me control again, I’m great at driving._

I have my license, I took Driver’s Ed, there’s no reason I shouldn’t be able to borrow my mom’s car except I know she’s going to refuse. I can see it all over her face. She’s thinking of a good excuse to give me that isn’t the truth, which is that she’s too concerned about me being crazy to let me go anywhere.

Finally she just says, “Maybe not, sweetie. You need your rest.”

I don’t, but that’s okay. I’m not going to fight her on it, I’m not going to steal her keys out of her purse or hotwire the car like Cain suggests. I haven’t said a word to Cain, and I’m not going to, even though he won’t shut up. I’m going to ignore him. I’m going to behave myself and be a good son to my mother, because I made her cry yesterday, and I think I’m going to make her cry a lot more pretty soon.

We sit together in the livingroom to watch nothing in particular. I’m thinking of what to do, if I really want to do this, if I even can kill myself with Cain inside me. I don’t want to kill anyone, especially Aidan, so I might have to kill myself if that’s the only way to stop Cain. I don’t really want to, because it’ll make my mom cry and Aidan’s going to miss me, but I don’t want the alternative to be more of Cain taking over my life. Not if he wants me to kill people. Not if he’s going to try kissing Aidan again, or if he’s going to kill Aidan, or do really anything with my body again.

That’s how it is when my father comes home. My mom and I both look to the front door as it opens, but I sink lower into my side of the sofa while she gets up. My father’s wearing a suit and dragging his luggage set, because he’s been out of town on business, and I just need one look at him to know my mother already told him all about my unexplainable adventure to the hospital.

I slide even lower onto the sofa and pretend to fiddle with my phone. I pull up a new text to Aidan and just type and delete gibberish while my parents start their fight. Like most fights they begin with terse politeness and frigid matrimonial affection, a stiff kiss on my father’s cheek before my mom asks about the trip, asks about dinner, starts whispering about me.

_Now would be a good time to steal the car, you know._

“How much more therapy does he need?” my father demands. Not whispering, so that my mom tries to hush him, and then the fight starts in earnest.

Are they going to do this right in the foyer when I’m sitting not twenty feet away? I glance over the top of my phone at where my parents are faced off against each other about me. I’m an only child, center of their parental universe. They only have me and this house that they share, I’m the only thing keeping them together. If I die, they’ll sell the house. They’ll get divorced.

“Maybe if you were home more often,” my mom snips.

“Don’t start in on that again. You’re not blaming this on me.”

I glance to the staircase. The trick now is moving out of hearing range without them seeing. Without my father seeing me, because he’ll want to say something to me. I never like what he has to say about me to my face. It’s bad enough I have to hear what he says to my mother about me.

_Your dad’s a dick. Mom’s kind of cute. You look a lot like her._

I wish I could get out of hearing range of Cain.

_I’m being pretty patient about this whole thing, but we need to talk about getting me a body. Much fun as watching your fascinating life has been, I think we’d both be a lot happier about this if we weren’t sharing this body._

I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from saying something to Cain. I glance over at my parents and then scoot off the end of the sofa. I walk quickly to the staircase and can still hear them arguing, so I rush up the stairs two at a time to reach my bedroom.

I close the door -- I don’t slam it, I actually make sure to be quiet. I go to my alarm clock and turn on the radio. Classical music drowns out the sound of my parents fighting, and I flop onto the bed and drag one of my pillows over my head.

_How about just a stranger? Pick someone up at the bar. Pretty thing like you, it’ll be easy. And I’ll be quick about it, if you keep your shit together long enough for me to figure out how to get your scrawny body turned lethal. Does your mom have a bunch of cooking knives? Is your dad into hunting?_

“I’m not killing anyone.” I mumble into my comforter. “Why do I have to kill someone for you?”

_Isn’t it obvious? You really are the dumbest necromancer I’ve ever met._

“I don’t even know what a necromancer is. I don’t know anything about this. I don’t know anyone who does. I --” I pop my head up and roll onto my back. I do know someone who can explain this, or at least will tell me he understands, so I’ll understand it somewhat better.

I sit upright and grab my phone out of my pocket. I fire off a quick text telling Aidan to come pick me up, because I know he will, and then I rush to my closet to hunt up a hooded sweatshirt. I also dig the earbuds out of my new phone’s box and jam them into my pocket.

_Yeah, no shit, you’re dumber than bricks._

I turn off my radio and hear my parents arguing. My dad, I hear my dad yelling, because my mom never yells. She gets softly fierce and will bite her words at my father, but she won’t raise her voice like he does. I hate hearing him yell at her, because more often than not it makes her cry. I hate seeing my mom cry. Ever since I was a little boy, I’ve hated seeing my mom cry.

I wait until Aidan texts me back that he’s on his way over, I wait until he texts that he’s out front, and then I run down the staircase.

“Aidan’s here! I’m going out!” I call.

Maybe if I’m quick about it they’ll be too distracted to care, but I don’t think they hear me anyway. I don’t really want them to hear me, I just want to leave, and I know it’s wrong to rush into the garage without actually making sure my mom knows I’m leaving, but this is normal for me. This is my normal life where my parents fight if they’re in the house together, and those are the times I won’t be in the house.

Aidan usually waits at the street, at the bottom of the drive, but he’s pulled all the way up to the curve under the portico this time. I hurry to his car and yank open the passenger door to throw myself inside.

He stares at me and then flicks his eyes to where my dad’s car is parked in front of the garage. “Hi,” he says.

“Go to where I delivered the letter,” I say. “And, please don’t say anything.”

I pull the hood up, sink low in the seat, get myself tucked away so that the only thing I see is my lap, nothing visible even from the corner of my eye thanks to the hood. I pull out my phone so Cain will have something to look at rather than try to ask where I’m going.

“Ethan, I’m not sure --”

“Please,” I say. I peek around the edge of the hood at the front door. “Aidan, go, before my mom realizes I’ve left.”

“Um, Ethan, if your mom --”

“It’s fine,”I say quickly. “Aidan, it’s fine. I’m sorry about yesterday, but I just really need you to shut up and drive right now. Please.”

He shifts the car into gear and putters forward while still looking over at me half-terrified, half-concerned. I get to where I can only see the screen in my lap again. Cain can’t hear me think, so long as I don’t say anything and don’t look anywhere he won’t know where I’m going. At least, I’m pretty sure that’s the way it works. Since I’ve been thinking all day about Cain without him saying anything about what I’m thinking, I’m pretty sure that’s the way it works.

I pop open a private browsing session on my phone and type into the search bar ‘ways to kill people and not get caught.’

_What’s this? Is this the internet? Fuck, yeah. Wait, that one. I was reading it -- hey, move the text back where I can see it._

I’m going to have to reformat my phone just to be sure this can’t be used against me in court someday. I hope Aidan can’t read the screen. My thumb rests against the side of the phone to let Cain keep reading. I can’t say anything with Aidan in the car. After a while Cain gets bored and declares he already knows how to kill someone without getting caught, so I type into the search bar ‘porn’ before he can ask where we’re going.

_What, no way! Wait, yeah that one. Fuck, yeah._

“Ethan?” I hear Aidan ask.

_This is great. Your world is great._

I don’t say anything, but I go back to the search and type ‘demon’ instead and pull up images of horned red things with bat wings. Cain’s laugh makes me squirm and shiver in my seat, because it’s all that shattered rock rumble of the dead cat’s laugh only inside me.

_This is a riot. Is this supposed to be me? Wait, go down further._

I hope Aidan’s looking at the road and not my phone. “Ethan, I want to go in with you this time. I’m going to find parking, okay?”

“Fine,” I say. If I protest, Cain’s going to know something’s wrong. “That’s fine, sure.”

_Look up people we can kill. Find me a body -- is there dating on here? I heard you can find people on the internet to fuck._

I go into the app store and download the first search research for dating. I create a profile using the name Abel Kane just so it won’t look too obvious and I can’t think of anything better. I put my age as eighteen first and then change it to twenty-one. I don’t dare go older than that. For the profile pic I start flipping through my photo stream with Cain offering way too much commentary on just which picture he thinks is best. I find one where my head is turned, where I'm not much more than blonde and slim, a photo Aidan took using my phone that barely looks like me at all.

Profile created, I start swiping through pictures of potential matches.

_No, ugly, ew, fuck no, maybe, is that a chick? Sure, maybe, no, no, fuck no, no --_

“Ethan?”

I realize the car’s parked and quickly exit the dating app. I pull open the music player and pull down a playlist out of my account, because I’m not trusting the cell service inside the building. “Sure,” I say. “Okay, just a minute.” I dig the earbuds out of my pocket. I plug them into my phone and then nestle each speaker into my ear.

“You do all the talking,” I say to Aidan. “I can’t hear anything you say, okay? Don’t talk to me.”

“What? What do I say? Ethan, what --”

I put the volume up enough that I can’t hear him. I get out of the car without looking at anything other than my feet.

_Hey, where are we? What are you doing?_

I tuck my phone into view and pull back open the dating app.

_No, enough of that -- where’d your friend go? Oh, we’re moving -- turn down that fucking music._

Aidan has his arm looped through mine to get me into walking, because I won’t look anywhere but at the phone screen.

_Abel, this isn’t cute. You’re up to something. Don’t make me fight you again._

I swipe through pictures on the dating app even though Cain’s not paying much attention to it anymore. Aidan can probably see what I’m looking at, but I can’t hear if he says anything about it. I have the music blasting into the earbuds so the only thing Cain’s going to hear is silly pop music, even as Aidan brings me to a stop. I feel brick against the back of my sweatshirt as I lean into the wall with my phone.

_Abel, you stupid motherfucker, what are you doing?_

It’s not long at all before Aidan pushes me forward - no, a different set of hands, pulling me forward into the building. Beyond the rectangular outline of my phone I see the shuffling of feet -- my sneakers, Aidan’s sneakers, polished black leather shoes, and then a set of navy boat shoes peeping out from tan suede pants that rush right up to me. A slim hand darts out to grab the cord dangling over my chest, and I look up with a gasp at the same time as the earbuds get yanked out of my ears.

“-- get a look at you,” he says, this person staring right at me. He’s got a pretty, heart-shaped face with wisps of chin-length platinum-blonde hair framing it. He’s dressed in normal clothes, bright colors, unlike the handsome man in the eye patch and then this one other person now in the room with me who are both in all black.

_Where the fuck is this? Who the fuck are these people? Is that -- oh shit._

I don’t want to look at anyone or anything, but I can’t help but look everywhere, at all three of these strangers, and I feel Aidan press close. Besides the man in the eye patch, there’s a shorter man standing back with his arms crossed just watching me from behind a dark sweep of bangs. It obscures nearly as much as his face as the eye patch, but what I can see is delicate but dangerous.

_Run. Abel, get the fuck out of here._

I feel my eyes going wide, same as I feel the vibration that seems to start at my toes. I can’t take in everything at once, so that I look everywhere and nowhere and know that I shouldn’t have looked up from my phone at all. My breath picks up into panic. Cain’s fighting me for control, so that my hands twitch and I sway.

“Oh, dear,” says the blonde. He has hold of my shoulders now. “Whatever’s possessing you is trying to come out to play, I think.” He puzzles a frown at me before looking to the others. “Well, I guess we’re doing an exorcism.”

_Goddammit, run. Abel, don't do this!_

“You are not doing it here,” says the man in the eye patch.

“Of course we are. Hi, I’m Phobos,” he says to me. “Don’t tell me your name. Let’s go --”

Aidan grabs onto me as I stagger. I can feel Cain struggling inside me, it’s an awful sensation of getting ripped in two as I fight him back so that neither of us has control. I have no idea what anyone says or does or even what I say or do, because my body is only half-mine as I fight Cain.

_Abel! Abel, you idiot, you fucking son of a bitch liar!_

I think if I try to tell Cain to shut up, if I try to tell Cain to behave, I think it’ll be my voice forming the words or I think I might throw up instead. I think I hear Aidan, I think I hear the man in the eye patch because he has that distinctive accent and low, calm voice that’s certainly better than the furious, shrill beat of Cain trying to take my body from me.

_You said you didn’t know anything about this shit, and now here you’ve taken us straight to the one fucking person --_

I scream, I know it’s me screaming, because I can feel the vibration in what I’m pretty sure is my throat. I’m nothing but agony, nothing but clutching and yanking pieces of myself back together as Cain tries to take them, if these people know what to do with me then I want them to do it. I’m not going to let Cain stop this. Everything and nothing, everything hurting, I’m not going to give up and let Cain take over.

_Abel! Abel listen to me. Listen to me, kid, this isn’t going to work the way they want it to, you need to get out of here._

Other voices, too, I can hear the alto-soprano sweetness of the blonde saying, “Put him in the center!”

It’s pitch black in this room, it’s bright without shadows in this room, there’s a coppery sheen on the floor in the shape of a pentagram. I’m being carried, my body is thrashing and not even mine or maybe mine so much that I can’t control it even though I think Cain stopped fighting me. Is that my voice shouting and wailing, so that everyone else has to yell?

This pretty blonde stranger who knew I was possessed, he seems to know what to do about Cain. He’s bossing everyone around, hurrying around everywhere, jumping over the lines on the floor with elegant, well-practiced ease. “Deimos, get the knife!”

_No!_

Cain’s loudest of all, he’s right inside my head.

_Abel, make them stop!_

I have no idea how Cain thinks I’m going to accomplish that considering what a mess he’s made of this for me. I have no idea where I am if not in control of my body, because the convulsing flail of limbs and shrieking that’s being set on the floor isn’t something I can do anything about it seems. I barely even feel part of this, so that maybe I’m actually Aidan standing in the corner with both hands over his mouth and tears streaming over his cheeks. Oh, maybe I’m nothing, because it seems strange how much I can see clearly everything and nothing, like I’m not even inside my body anymore. I hear a voice, I hear voices, I hear Cain the most, and he sounds scared.

_These idiots, these fucking idiots! This isn’t going to work, fuck! Abel, sweetheart, I’ll find you. I’m not going to let --_

My eyes snap open, even though I’m not sure they were closed. There’s a silence, a stillness, I become so silent and still. I see the ceiling, I’m in my body, I see shadows move over the room, shadows move over my eyes, shadows moving in this room without shadows, so that I have a crystalline moment of pure terror.

And then I sit up, calm and controlled, no longer twitching or shrieking, I’m very calm now as I sit up to look at the shadow-filled room. I feel so calm even though I am terrified. Everything in this room is a shadow. Grey shadows, a black and white world, intangible like smoke, I don’t understand what I’m seeing, it’s the room and everyone in it but so wrong.

The silvery glint of a knife pulls my gaze at a shadow that moves away from me -- a person, it’s dark, wispy shade of a person who steps back with this knife in hand. I hear sounds, these rhythmic sounds that are like the cadence of speech but incomprehensible.

On the floor around me is a brightly-glowing scarlet pentagram, the only splotch of color in the whole world that I see. This can’t be real. I must be hallucinating without an hallucination. I am so frightened as I get to my feet and it’s silent, the shuffle of my sneakers on the floor is just a mute nothing. It feels like being in a dream. I put my hand out and try to touch the arm on the shadow holding a knife, but my fingers wisp through it like smoke.

I think these four shadows I see in the room with are people. One of them is Aidan, one of them is the bossy blonde who called himself Phobos, I can guess who is who by the posture, the size, the positioning, I think these shadows are supposed to be people. I think they just stabbed me to death trying to perform the exorcism, because I think I might be dead.

I hold out my hands. I’m not a shadow. I’m my mother’s peaches-and-cream skin, a length of heather-grey sweatshirt sleeve. I pull my phone from my pocket, and of course there’s no service, of course the screen is a scrambled disaster of multicolored pixels, of course none of this makes sense.

_Abel?_

It’s such a soft, barely there whisper that makes my heart leap. “Cain?”

_Yeah. Hey, sweetheart._

He sounds ragged, raw, somehow hurt even though he’s just a voice inside me and I don’t feel hurt at all. I don’t feel anything except fear.

“What happened? Cain? What happened? Are you okay?” I shouldn’t care if he’s okay, but it’s just the way he sounds. I ask it without thinking.

_One thing at a time, kid. I need to find you first._

“I’m here. I didn’t go anywhere. I’m in the same room, but everything’s wrong. Am I dead? Did I die?”

_Probably not. Can you leave that room? I think I found you, but I can’t cross the threshold. You need to come outside._

That makes as much sense as anything. I’m careful not to step on the glowing pentagram lines as I walk around the room to try understanding all the shadows better. I find the table, and some of the murky shapes glitter with strange symbols, but I don’t look too close as I walk along the wall to find the corner.

From there I feel around and swiped my hand through insubstantial nothing until I feel fabric. The curtain, I think, so I leave behind the glowing pentagram and the people I can’t see or understand. It’s probably a bad idea to listen to Cain, but once again he’s the only thing telling me what to do, and I think he was right about trying to stop this. I hope he knows what he’s doing. I certainly don’t.

I try to remember the layout of the building. It’s a lot of strange wandering through this nightmare until I find the stairs. Everything’s that grey haze, walls seem to gently undulate, it’s like the whole world burned to ash and I’m walking in the ruins. I’m scared to touch anything, scared to put my feet on the floor.

“Cain?”

_Here, sweetheart. You’re doing great, keep going. I definitely found you. Come on outside._

I feel around at the entry and put my hands into the flickering white flame of the candles. I don’t smell the incense and realize I don’t smell anything at all. As I try, I realize I’m not breathing -- I am silent and still, no pulse and not breathing.

“Cain, I think I’m dead.”

I hear him laugh.

_Come outside, Abel._

I find the door, but it takes me a minute to understand how to get through it. I don’t want to think about how it’s mostly moving myself through an impossibility of smoke and shadow. I understand all the curtains now, because it’s both disconcerting and uncomfortable to the point of pain to get through the door.

A hand closes over my arm and pulls me closer. “Hey, sweetheart,” says a voice. Not in my head, no, this demon isn’t inside me anymore. He’s bottle-green eyes and black fur, he’s a young man with a curved smirk on a handsome face -- a demon, I know it’s Cain looking down at me. He’s color and substance in this shadow-world, tufted dark brows above dark eyes -- not green, those were the cat’s eyes, his eyes are dark mirrors for me to get lost in staring.

“You have a body,” is all I can think to say.

He laughs, and I watch with fascination as the sharp glint of his toothy grin takes shape once he’s done laughing at me. I can’t believe how normal he looks, this demon doesn’t have horns or bat-wings, he has shaggy black hair, a blunt set of attractive features, dusky-tan skin, a black leather jacket, he’s wearing a red shirt, jeans, combat boots. I keep finding new things to stare at as we stand there in wherever this place is where he has a body and everything is wrong.

“Welcome to the Otherside,” Cain says. “Fuck if I know how I’m getting you out of here. You’ve really fucked us now, princess. I hope you’re happy.”

I’m not, at all. I don’t think I’ve ever been unhappier in my life, because I think Cain might be right about everything, and I think I’m going to have to start listening to him.


	7. Chapter 7

Cain draws a line through the shadows that glows. “So over there is your complicated fucking world, and then there’s the Otherside over here. That’s where you are now.”

“Okay,” I say.

He rocks back on his heels. I cannot take my eyes off Cain, but he’s also the only thing I can see besides shadows and nothing, wispy grey smoky things that resist me either a lot or a little. We’re crouched together in what I guess is the alley outside the building. I’ve kept the door at my back as much as I can, because I don’t want to get lost here.

“Shit here in the Otherside likes getting into your world, and your world is always trying to get shit out of the Otherside just as much as it’s trying to put it back,” Cain says. He taps at the line he drew on the ground. “There are times and places where the division between here and there is less. Nothing’s better than the moment of death for crossing, and no one’s better at getting across or getting things across than a necromancer.”

“Oh. And that’s me?”

He chuckles. “Yeah, kid, that’s you. Most the stuff over here is dead.” He shifts to his feet and looms over me before I start to stand and he takes my arm. I can’t tell if he’s helping me up or making sure I don’t run away on him.

Cain takes my chin in his hand and turns my face some to scrutinize me. “You’re going to be a fucking beacon for anything feeling ambitious. You were for me, first time I saw you.” He caresses my cheek as he lets go. The brusqueness of the gesture makes it a shove.

“How the fuck am I getting you home, kid?” He scowls and stomps his boot into the shadows at our feet. “Want to tell me why you thought it was a good idea to get a demon hunter involved in this?”

“Who?” I ask. “A what?"

Cain shoves his hands into his pockets. “Deimos, that little shit.”

“I only knew the man with the eye patch. He told me not to talk to you or tell you my name before and then … something, he stabbed me, in the center of the star he stabbed my eye so I’d stop seeing dead people.” I can’t think of any reason not to tell Cain all these things.

He shrugs. I shouldn’t be surprised that Cain looks at me like he’s going to kill me or fuck me, considering what I know of him. Nothing about this makes sense to me, but Cain is so calm about it that I feel calm. At least Cain doesn’t look at me like I’m crazy.

“He’s some fucking magician or sorcerer. Witch, wizard, whatever your world wants to call self-righteous assholes like him these days.” Cain takes hold of me again, he turns me around with his hands like he’s inspecting a purchase. He holds out my arm to check the length. It’s extremely concerning, but I’m not about to try escaping from the only thing that can talk to me and explain this.

“Nothing ever dies around you. Nothing ever tries to kill you,” Cain says. “Your life is boring.” He runs his fingers through my hair until he finds the scar from the boat rail. “No wonder you’re a shitty necromancer.”

“I don’t know what that means,” I remind him.

“What kind of gods do you know?” he asks. “What spirits and demons?”

“I know you,” I say. “Um, I know about God and stuff but my parents aren’t very religious. I guess I’m kind of a - an atheist, if anything… I like science.”

He turns me to face him and then lets go. There’s a grin on his face, but it seems more predatory than friendly. “Perfect. You know me. Keep it that way.”

I barely even want to listen to Cain. I nod at him and say, “Okay. Sure.” I have no reason not to listen to Cain anymore, especially if he’s going to be the only thing talking to me anymore.

And then I hear something besides Cain. I hear the cadence of words that I don’t understand but know is speech. It’s almost like pressing my face into the bars of the hallway overlook watching my parents fight, hearing the angry tones but not the distinct and specific hatreds.

I can’t help but turn my head, despite just having been nodding at Cain that I wouldn’t listen to anything else. I almost think I recognize the voices. “Do you hear that?”

“Ethan,” snaps Cain. I haven’t heard him use my name since that first time I told him. “Ethan, look at me.”

I turn back to him quick enough that I catch him in between scowls, in a moment where he’s tensed to grab me again but doesn’t look angry. He looks scared. Soon as I’m facing him again, he does snatch my arm into his fist.

I won’t look away from Cain again. Between him and a voice I don’t know, I at least think Cain has reasons to want me around. I need to kill people for him, apparently. “Sorry,” I say. “I’ll ignore it. I just thought it sounded familiar.”

_Ethan!_

I stare at Cain. I don't turn toward Aidan's voice even as I hear him again calling my name.

“Okay. Now it’s my name,” I tell Cain. “I'm not trying to listen but I hear my name.”

He gives a low, throaty chuckle and pulls me against him with a mean-seeming smirk. “Guess you might go home without me,” Cain says. “If they’re going to pull, I suppose I can push.” His expression is surly and mocking as he tucks me into his arms and bends close.

Kissing Cain is nothing like kissing Aidan. Here in this strange nothing of shadow, Cain is fire and air against me, a hot devouring force that makes my fingers curl and body shiver. I don’t know if it’s because he’s a demon or if it’s because he looks like he’s just walked off a punk rock album cover, I cannot believe how normal this feels, how eager I am to kiss Cain.

Until he bites me, pain searing sharp with his teeth as I whimper and jerk. I shove at Cain but he’s solid against me, nothing wispy or insubstantial about him. His hands are iron bands keeping me against him as blood fills my mouth, his mouth, he kisses me as he bites me. I hit my fists into his ribs and chest until he lets me go.

“Ow! Cain!” He’s between me and the door, and I stumble to keep from stepping on top of the glowing line he scratched in the ground. I retreat further and press my fingers into the split wet line of my lip. “You bit me!”

Cain smirks and steps forward to easily take hold of me again even though I squirm and struggle to resist. His thumb rubs a rough rasp of pain across my lip before he leans in to kiss me again. The velvet caress of his tongue flicks into the jagged bite. I think I might gag on the thick taste of blood and saliva that collects in my mouth.

My lip grows cold and then numb, it feels swollen as Cain pushes his tongue into my mouth and kisses me in those punk rock idol ways again that don’t hurt, where his teeth don’t cut into me. Arousal pulses between my legs even as no blood beats in my veins, so that I’m dizzy with the impossibility of what I’m doing kissing Cain like this.

Cain presses his hand between my shoulders to draw me closer to him. His leg fits between mine so that I grind into him, desperate in ways that are shameful but he’s a demon, that has to be why I crawl and moan against him like this. I push my lips into his, the swollen hot urgency of my lip where the split line no longer hurts. I rub and rut a stiff jutting cock against Cain’s leg as we kiss.

He pushes me into the wall, I turn my head to say, “Wait,” even before he’s pressing up against me again.

“Relax, sweetheart,” he says.

Cain’s hand circle my waist, they unclasp my pants, and when he reaches under the waistband of my underwear to take hold of my cock I make the most dreadful noise. My lashes flutter as I shift my legs apart and thrust into Cain’s hand.

I can’t let this happen, I can’t let him fuck me, I have no idea what I’m doing but I need Cain inside me right now. I claw at the wall of shadows that keeps me pinned here with Cain and roll my hips with wanton disregard for what I’m doing. My body is a stranger to me, an undulating creature of want and desire that bends pliable into Cain’s touch.

“Cain,” I plead. I have no idea what I want, just that I want something enough that I could choke on tears if I wasn’t so silent and still in this shadow world.

Fire traces my thighs as Cain strokes me, and his mouth pants ardor against my neck and ear. This can’t be real, this can’t be happening, everything is burnt ashen shadow except for Cain. He’s a hot throbbing cock nestled into my ass, he’s the thrust of a finger, the curl of a gesture, I can’t believe this is happening.

My voice sobs, “Wait,” without tears, without the ragged burst of my breath. I think this should hurt but it’s just desire that I feel, arousal sharp and keening, sensation that whips along my body as Cain thrusts into me. He’s inside me, when he rocks forward I feel his cock pushing in and out of me, he’s fucking me, I can’t believe this is happening.

“Stop, Cain --” I thrash hard and moan as Cain pumps his hand over my cock again and every nerve in my body ignites. Molten pleasure sets my protests into whimpers because fuck this feels amazing even though I want it to stop I’m desperate for it. I’m desperate for him, for Cain.

My knees shiver, my whole body shivers, I am pinned so helpless between Cain’s cock and his hand, his hips and thighs, his whole body against me. I’ve never done this before. I’ve never had sex before. Cain using my body to kiss Aidan was my first kiss, and now Cain’s fucking me, I’m filled with Cain inside me and abusing a rhythm into me that’s possessing and rough.

Orgasm hits me with agonized intensity. It’s unrelenting pressure and motion from Cain, he’s still fucking me, saying, “Oh, fuck yeah,” as I spurt and thrash and bite back wails. He has to hold me up, he shoves my skinny body harder into the darkness around us, surely I’ll have bruises after this.

Cain’s teeth close over my skin, they cut into my neck to pull a low moan from me that sharpens on each snapped thrust of Cain’s hips. It’s a racing frenzy, a harsh tempo between us, this demon called Cain latches into me and bucks into me over and over. I’m helpless and undulating, thrust adrift into nothing, it’s so intense I could be screaming but I can’t even breathe.

I feel him turn jittery and urgent, his cock beats deeper inside me. Cain starts to come with a groan. It’s slick heat inside me, Cain doesn’t slow down as he snarls and moans. His cock pulses and pounds, it’s all I can feel, he’s so deep inside me so I’m starting to fill and flow. I dry-heave a sob and jerk against him, away from him, I can’t get away. I need more and want less, he’s everything in that moment, in so many moments I’m nothing but this.

It’s so hot that I’m burning, it feels like racing on my bike again. As if wind’s ripping tears from my face I shudder beneath Cain. He bites down and shivers, “Ethan,” into my skin.

“Please,” I cry. I grab at him, I twist, I shove for his lips and buck hard against him. It’s blood and come between us, my seared open lip feels smooth. I taste the scar of my lip as Cain growls endearments and thrusts, he pins me into this dark shadow of his world.

“Abel,” he says. It’s a groaning half-laugh. We kiss again and it’s blinding, agony and desire so that I scrunch my eyes closed. “I’ll find you,” he whispers. Cain makes it sound like a threat just as much as a lover’s promise. I don’t understand until I’m gone, he’s gone, I snap away into elsewhere, pressure lifts and everything changes.

I open my eyes and see a bright ceiling, so bright without shadows. I’m lying on the floor in a way that seems peaceful until I draw my first breath. Another beat of my heart slams into the fast-expanding gasp of my ribcage. Someone shrieks and jumps back, so that I see motion and not much else.

The pain hits me as a lash of arousal. I quiver and jerk in strange ways as if I’m still getting fucked, but it’s just me on the floor in the center of chaos. My underwear is stuck to my half-stiff cock with come and sweat rings the back of my neck as I breath fast and thrash. I roll to my hands and knees. I claw my fingers into the floor and see the glowing red lines of a pentagram.

I run my tongue into my lip and feel the bump of a scar. I remember the taste of blood, the lustful frenzy of fucking Cain that’s left my body sore and tender, flushed and sated -- I shiver and twitch at the memory of Cain moving inside me, his cock filling me and fucking me. Agony rips into my stomach as I feel again at the scar on my lip. Saliva rushes into my mouth as I choke and find the first sob. I hurt in ways and places I didn’t know could hurt.

The bossy blonde starts to speak with a lifted lisp of a gasp. “He’s back! He’s here! I’ve got it now, he’s here!”

“Shut up,” rasps a stranger. It’s the small man holding the knife, the one Cain called a demon hunter. Deimos looks at me and then eyes my crotch in a way that’s mortifying and creepy at once.

I rub at my face and push aside tears. “I want to leave,” I say. My voice is a raw wound, the words barely enough to cut the air. I look up to find myself in the center of the room, the center of attention, the center of the pentagram. I need to find Cain. I need to get away from these people before they send me over the line again.

I get to my feet and tug the hem of my sweatshirt down over the front of my pants. “I’m fine now. I just want to leave,” I say. I do a great job at sounding calm. I don’t sound like someone who got fucked by a demon and crossed back from the Otherside.

Aidan’s in the corner still with both hands over his mouth, tears streaming over his cheeks. I can tell by the way he’s staring that he can’t see in this room without shadows. I bet for him it’s like for me on the Otherside, or maybe he can’t see anything at all so it’s just darkness entirely. He doesn’t move and looks everywhere and nowhere at the sound of my voice.

I stare down at the pentagram and the glowing red lines, and I bend over my knees with a sudden dry retch. I grip my hand into my thigh and fight against puking. I wipe my mouth into my shoulder and swallow the flooded terror of spit and tears. It’s like I just left, like I didn’t leave at all, I don’t understand anything about this but Deimos is still holding that knife.

I need to find Cain and get away from these people. I force myself to straighten upright. I dart for Aidan and make him scream when I grab his hand. Deimos moves toward me with quick, sure steps that say he can see in this room, and he still has the knife.

The man in the eye patch steps forward to get between us. He holds up his hand. “Let him go. He is only a child,” he says.

“Necromancer,” the demon hunter retorts. He still has the knife, I push Aidan sideways toward the curtain. “Crossed over and back. Shouldn’t have tried exorcism.”

“Yes, thank you for stating the obvious. I'm aware I fucked up on that decision.” The bossy blonde called Phobos stares at me as well with a wild gleaming smile. He skips forward and throws out a hand as if we’re going to do introductions, even though I’m clearly trying to flee. “Sorry about that. Praxis didn’t tell me you were a necromancer. That explains everything, although not quite as much as it should.”

I hate him so viciously for saying it like that, like it really doesn’t make perfect sense to him. It was his idea to do this to me. He thought he knew what to do -- and Deimos still has the knife, and Cain knew about Deimos. I push against Aidan to urge him toward the doorway.

“We’re leaving. I’m fine now,” I say. I don’t think I sound very calm. I think my voice is shaking along with the rest of me, and I think that I might collapse if I stop moving or let go of Aidan’s hand. I need away from these people. Coming here was a mistake -- I don’t want to get involved. It’s bad enough that I need to find Cain, or that he’s going to find me, I need to leave this place and these people who know what I am.  

“Look at his lip,” says Phobos. “Deimos.” He says it like summoning a dog. His fingers snap some to help emphasize the command before he points at me.

Deimos ducks around the man in the eye patch and that’s when I shove Aidan into the curtain. I hush to him, “Run!” and drag him down the hall toward the stairs. The hand holding the knife gets through the curtain first followed by the rest of this intense small stranger who looks ready to stab me again to stop me from running away.  

“Ethan --”

“Don’t say my name! Just move!” We stumble down the stairs together and once past the landing Aidan doesn’t need my hand to guide him. I would fall down the stairs just to get to the bottom faster, I would shove him into a tumble if I thought it would help.

A hand grabs mine and it’s Deimos without the knife. I scream anyway and slap at him to get free. Aidan slips on the stairs as he turns and rushes back. He snatches the man’s ankle so that Deimos jerks back and falls. He tugs me down, too, we both go crashing. I’m up first and so is Aidan, he’s gone even as I jump over Deimos and keep running.

I tear after Aidan through the curtain into the entry, where the heavy scents of incense and wax choke me with relief. Blood-red stones sit in a bowl with white candles, and sunlight cuts into the room as Aidan slams through the door. I follow him out into the alley and can’t believe it’s daylight, grey murky February overcast but still bright and perfect.  

We run for the car, Aidan shrieks curses at his keys before getting it unlocked and then started, I’d tell him to drive safe except it feels like I’m dying now that I’m not running for my life. I feel ripped up and bleeding, beaten inside, I keep thinking of Cain sliding in and out so slick and fast. I can’t believe that he fucked me.

My fingers skip and shiver over my lip. Aidan swerves the car into motion as I tackle the sun visor to flip open the mirror. A vertical red line marks my mouth, and I watch in the mirror as this terrified-looking boy stabs his tongue into the smooth bump of a fresh scar. Without anyone needing to tell me I know this is how Cain’s going to find me again, now that I’m his. I feel at the scar on my lip and then scratch through my hair until I find the one on my head, the one from hitting the boat rail when I went into the water. 

"You can't think I'm crazy still," I say to Aidan. "You have to believe me now, right?"

"Yeah. No, Ethan -- I believe you." He lets out a shaky breath like a sob. "Fuck, I don't know what I believe anymore, but I don't think you're crazy."

 


	8. Chapter 8

Over my hips and thighs I expect to see bruises but find only smooth pale skin, nothing looking hurt about me to explain all the ache. My reflection in the mirror is a scared-looking kid, someone slim and blonde drowning their way out of a too-big hooded sweatshirt. I clean the inside of my underwear with some paper towels, wash my face and hands, stare at my face in the mirror for much too long because of the vivid red scar that crosses my lip. It’s the only mark on me from what Cain did, or else I’d think the whole thing never happened.

Aidan’s waiting with our drinks once I squeeze through a group of teenage girls in line. He hands me a paper cup and blows into the plastic lid on his coffee. Heat presses through the cardboard sleeve into my palm as I grip a soy latte with my name scribbled onto the side.

We wander away from the cafe and into the rest of the bookstore. From my pocket comes the beep of my phone, and I bet it’s another text from my mom. I told her I’d eat dinner with Aidan, she told me to come home, I haven’t looked at my phone since because I’m not going back. I can’t go home yet. I can barely tolerate the bookstore. On the drive over here, I told Aidan more or less everything without actually saying what I did with Cain, because there is no way I’m going to admit anything about how this scar got on my lip.

Aidan pulls a book from the shelf and flips through it with one hand. I lean into the shelves next to him and turn the cardboard sleeve around on the cup. Aidan sets his coffee on the shelf so he can look at the book with both hands. I’m not sure what useful information he thinks he’ll find when we both already looked up ‘necromancer’ on our phones while waiting in line to get coffee. I doubt a book on the shelf of the local suburban mall is going to have more to say on the subject than the entire internet.

I take a sip of my latte and curl my fingers against the warmth of the cup. I’m staring out of the aisle at nothing when someone pokes around the corner and says, “Hi!”

It’s that bossy blonde called Phobos, standing there in a navy pea coat trimmed in white, tan suede pants that are slim and fitted, he looks too entirely normal. There’s even a small messenger bag slung across his shoulder, some plush leather thing I’m certain is designer label like the rest, so he looks nothing at all like someone who just chased me around a bright glowing red pentagram.

Phobos flops out his hands to show they’re empty and then lifts them up further like it’s a stick-up, like I’m the one who’s threatening. I glance to the side, glance over my shoulder, I’m looking for Deimos or anyone wearing all-black holding a knife.

Aidan shuts the book and looks ready to throw it, so that Phobos lifts his hands and says again, “Hi! Hi, sorry, yeah, I followed you. Or, I traced you -- don’t worry. Deimos and Praxis aren’t here. It’s just me.” He looks me over in a way I don’t like, appraising and judgmental, just because he’s dressed like a model and I’m slouching in a sloppy hoodie and jeans.  

“What do you want?” Aidan asks.

“To talk,” he says. “I just want to talk.” Phobos tugs a creamy-thick scarf from out of his coat and then works open the painted-wood toggles. His cheeks are pinked from the cold, like he came straight inside the store to find us since apparently he knew where to find us and how, so there’s not much point in trying to run.

Aidan glances at me, I give him a shrug in return, so that he nods and looks back to Phobos. “Okay. So talk,” he says.

“Maybe not here,” Phobos says. “Although we’re in the right section for it.” His smile starts off bright and then slowly fades when neither Aidan nor I make any effort at returning it. We’re exchanging another long, silent look where I just end up shrugging.

“Here or not at all,” says Aidan. Apparently he has stronger feelings about this than I do, or at least a better awareness of not wandering into dangerous situations.

Phobos sighs. “Fine. Let’s find a place to sit.” He slides out of his coat and puts it across his arm as we wander back to the cafe. It’s entirely too normal as he stands in line for a drink while Aidan and I find a table. We get one near the back corner and sit together to guard it while waiting for Phobos to join us.

I make sure to look at everyone in the cafe, but none of them are the right size and shape to be Deimos with that knife again. Anyone that Cain recognizes just has to be trouble, so I immediately distrust Phobos by association. Beside me Aidan fidgets with an unopened sugar packet and watches the back of Phobos’ head.

Presently Phobos comes to take the empty seat at the table carrying a large blended concoction of sugar, whipped cream, and assumably coffee. “I know it’s silly to get something frozen when it’s freezing outside, but I love these things,” he says. “They’re so good.”

His lips close over the straw, and I watch as the line of drink inside disappears up into his mouth. Aidan stares at him looking horrified by the cheerful casualness of the gesture. After a bit Phobos stops with a wince and says, “Ooh, brain freeze. Okay.”

He looks between the two of us and then resettles into the chair. His ankles cross delicately as he repositions and says, “Okay,” again like he thinks we’re going to make this easy. He glances to me. “Abel,” he says. “That’s what Praxis said to call you, right?”

I shrug and say, “Sure.”

“Well, Abel and friend. I’m Phobos, if you didn’t remember our very brief introduction when I totally didn’t peg you as a necromancer. Clearly I’m out of practice.” He snorts and shoves the straw back into his mouth, huffy about it like I’m personally to blame for his mistake. “I think it was probably the sixties last time I actually ran into a necromancer. Ugh, my hair back then. I don’t even know what I was thinking for that whole decade. Anyway you crossed to the Otherside, right? Can you do it again? Without Deimos, without the exorcism I mean, could you?”

There’s a lot of emphasis with the way he asks it, and I feel somehow insulted as if I should be able to retort that of course I can, I’m a necromancer. According to Cain there’s no one better than me at this kind of thing, except I don’t have a clue what I’m doing, and I’m pretty sure I just heard him mention a decade there is no way he could have been alive for.

Aidan puts his hand on my arm, even though I’ve only shifted around like I want to say something. “You said you just wanted to talk.”

“And I’m talking. I’m the only one talking, you two are just sitting there looking terrified.” Phobos gestures with his drink around at the cafe. “Is this not pleasant enough for you? Do we need to do this in a woodland forest with fucking butterflies and frockling baby deer? Come on. How dangerous do you really think I am?” He taps his foot impatiently and frowns at us like he wishes he was the one with the knife.

“Are you a demon?” I ask.

Phobos bursts into a long, snickering laugh. “M-me?” He cackles loud enough to draw glances from neighboring tables. “No, honey, but that’s cute. That’s really cute. Ask me another.”

“What are you?” Aidan asks. He’s quick with it, like he had the question ready.

“Not a demon,” Phobos says. He smirks again as if we should be laughing at the same joke. “Although you asking means Deimos was probably right. I hate when he’s right.” He eyes my lip as he sips down more of his drink.

We sit in matched silence as Phobos stabs around with the straw to better mix the whipped cream into the icy dwindlings of his drink. “Look, I don’t want to make this sound like a threat, but if you don’t help me then I’m going to have to keep helping Deimos. And I don’t think you want that, because I’m pretty useful -- case in point, I’m the one sitting here having found you while Deimos is still probably trying to talk Praxis into throwing a handful of sticks on the floor for a dowsing. I’m even giving you a bargain -- all I want is to cross into the Otherside. I’m not asking for the moon.”

Aidan grips into my arm so I won’t blurt anything out, and that’s probably for the best. I’m tempted to offer to kill Phobos, surely that will get him across, but with my luck it would just summon Cain into his body instead. My stomach churns uneasily at thoughts of Cain, because of how empty I feel without him now. He said he was going to find me, but I’m not sure he can. I think he would have done it already, if he could, or at least if it was going to be easy for him.

Aidan glances over at me, but I shake my head. Cain didn’t mention knowing anything about Phobos, even though he seemed to recognize Deimos, so I’m not sure what to think.

Aidan looks to Phobos. “Abel’s not doing anything for you.”

Phobos swirls in last floating bits of whipped cream and drawls out a long suffered sigh. “I was so afraid of that. Let’s not talk about how much Deimos is going to want to kill you. Ew, tragic.”

“What?” Aidan straightens in his chair. I clutch at the paper cup in my hands, although most the warmth has leached out of it now.

Phobos nods at my lip. “Because of your demon problem. I wish demons were as pretty and nice as me.” He laughs in a way that is certainly pretty but not nice at all, because he’s laughing at us. Me, specifically, because I never should have said anything about demons.

“There’s no problem,” Aidan says. “We’re fine now. Abel’s fine. He doesn’t need any help from you.”

“I think maybe he does,” Phobos says. “Soon as all those sticks point Deimos in the right direction, he’s going to come looking for you. When that happens, I’d really appreciate the two of you not blurting out anything about me being here. If not, whatever. No hard feelings. Deimos doesn’t trust me anyway.”

“Then why should we?” Aidan asks.

Phobos laughs and brings his messenger bag around from the back of the chair without looking and reaches into one of the outside pouches. “You know, good point. You probably shouldn’t. I wouldn’t trust me.”

Aidan glances at me, but I shake my head again. He says, “We’re not going to, then. We’re not going to help you.”

“Right? That was pretty obvious.” The crisp white rectangle of a business card goes across the table. Phobos scoots it in front of us with one slim finger and then taps at it. “But this is me, in case you change your mind. Ignore the Deimos half.”

Aidan and I both lean forward to look at the card without touching it. ‘Equinox Investigations’ is emblazoned along the top of large, curling font and beneath that is a logo of black and white circles overlaid to form a small slivered crescent. Contact information forms two squat pillars of text in either bottom corner on the front of the card, but for Deimos there’s an email address, ICQ number, and a pager number. I think that’s ridiculous until I look to see Phobos just has Twitter and Instagram accounts listed. There’s not a phone number or mailing address printed anywhere on the card.

“I cannot believe you have business cards,” I say aloud.

“I know, right? Aren’t they great?” Phobos snatches the card up to admire it for a moment. He flips it around between his fingers and then offers it out again. “Here, take it. I already have a ton of them.”

Aidan gingerly takes hold of the card and pulls it in closer for inspection. “This is the person you say wants to kill Abel? I can take this to the police.” He glances over at me briefly before looking to Phobos. “I’m going to tell the police about this.”

“Sure,” Phobos says. “You do that. Literally no one has ever thought to do that, ever. No way that won’t work. You’re so brilliant to think of it. What a perfect thing to do. Of course the police will believe you that a man named Deimos is going to kill to your friend to stop a demon from crawling its way into this world now that it’s found a necromancer stupid enough to listen.”

He stands slings into his scarf and coat. The wooden toggles loop the pea coat closed as Phobos works them with nimble, slim fingers. “But you don’t need my help, of course. The police are going to help you.” He laughs and snatches up the empty drink cup. He slurps noisily at the last few drops of moisture and then pauses to laugh again, cruel and mocking.

Aidan jerks to his feet and I stand up with him, because I’m genuinely concerned that my shy, awkward best friend is about to snap and throw a punch at Phobos. I grab Aidan’s hand to keep it down at his side instead of going into Phobos’ face, because I’m pretty sure mall security will come kick us out if we start a fight here in front of the entire bookstore cafe.

“See ya around,” Phobos says. “Good luck with Deimos. I’m going to pretend we never spoke like this when he drags me with him to come kill you. Holla at me you change your mind though.”  He gleams a smile at us and wiggles his fingers in a wave.

I sit and tug Aidan with me, but he stays standing to watch Phobos leave before slumping down next to me again. He sets his elbows on the table and then leans his face into his hands with a groan. “Ethan, please don’t be offended, but I wish you were just crazy.”

“No. I get it.” I kick at the center post on the table and then pull my phone from my pocket. “My mom wants me home.”

“Yeah, mine too,” says Aidan. “Are you going to school tomorrow? Am I?” He glances at the rest of the cafe and looks for too long at someone who ends up being an Asian girl with short hair when she turns around and takes off her coat.

I shrug and start to pick apart the cardboard sleeve of my cup. More than ever, I wish Cain would pop up with some sarcastic remark and then tell me what to do. If he’s so certain he can use my body to kill someone, then a great time to do it would be when someone’s trying to kill me because of him.

Aidan and I sit there until the cafe and the bookstore both close, and then we sit in his car with the heater running for another half-hour before leaving. He drives slow past my driveway so I can look for my dad’s car to be gone, but it isn’t. Both my parents are home.

I flip down the visor to look at the scar again in the mirror. I still haven’t thought of what I’m going to say when she asks. I know she’ll ask. I slam the visor into the roof of Aidan’s car and sink low into my seat. I’m going to sound crazy again, soon as I leave Aidan’s car and go inside my house. I’ll have to say I don’t know how I got this jagged red mark on my face. It doesn’t hurt and I’m fine, but she won’t let me leave it at that and neither will my father. It’ll be another unexplainable thing about me, something new for my mom to cry about.  

“I can’t go home.”

“Okay,” Aidan says.

He puts the car into gear so we leave, because if I’m not going home then he won’t either. I turn to look back at my house, my nice quiet house, because the front porch light but none of the other lights are on in the house. Usually I leave all the lights on, I like to turn them on as I walk through the house at night when it’s empty. I tend not to to turn them off again as I leave, but my mother or cleaning lady will get them off again while I’m at school or out with Aidan or just elsewhere.

“Where do you want to go?” Aidan glances over at me briefly.

I think of going to a cemetery, because I need dead people to be a necromancer, but I feel like if it were as easy as that Cain would have told me just to dig him up a corpse. I might have been crazy and stupid enough to do that for him. I think of Cain hobbling around in a half-flat dead cat, and his insistence that however I kill his body for him that I keep it nice and clean.

“Where’s somewhere with a lot of dying people?” I ask Aidan. “Not dead people, but people about to die.”

It’s a testament to exactly how much he no longer thinks I’m crazy that I see him thinking about it. His fingers tap at the steering wheel for the red light. “Old folks home?” Aidan switches the direction of his turn signal and checks quickly before turning right out of the neighborhood instead to avoid the long light.

“Old people aren’t really actively dying.” I slump an arm into the door and rest my chin on my hand. “They’re just likely to die.”

“Hospital,” Aidan says. “Dying people get taken to hospitals, nearly everyone actually dies in hospitals these days.”

“Yeah.” I look out the window at the passing ramble of gateways into neighborhoods and dense-packed stretches of shops fighting for attention on turns. “And the morgue’s full of bodies.”

“Ethan, you can’t steal a body from the morgue. We are not doing that,” Aidan says. “There’s no way we can do that. We would get caught so fast.”

“Yeah, I know.” I think a morgue would be the same as a cemetery anyway, even if the bodies would be in better shape. “But I’m not killing anyone.”

“Um, yeah.” Aidan glances over at me. “Yeah, Ethan. We are definitely not going to kill anyone.”

Aidan drives us out to to the half-closed shopping center out on the edge of town that has a huge parking lot. It’s the best place to come try jumping curbs on a bicycle or to spin donuts in the snow with a car, or sometimes just to sit because we can’t go home.

For the next three hours we sit and talk about ways to get me a dead body without killing anyone or doing anything else illegal, and then Aidan falls asleep while I stay up looking at stuff on my phone until the battery dies. Once it’s morning enough to be awake I tell Aidan I need to buy a new phone charger, I’m not going to school so neither is he, and that we’re going to the pet store to find something to kill.


	9. Chapter 9

“I’m not sure I can do this,” Aidan says.

We’re staring at a wall of cats too cute to kill, these adoptable creatures in cages stacked behind the glass. I set my hands into my thighs as I lean over and look at the paper tag that describes the sleeping cat, how he’s friendly and sweet. All of the cats have cute names, cute descriptions, they’re too cute to kill but I’m going to have to kill one of them if I want to find Cain.

“Yeah, I know,” I say to Aidan. “Let’s see what else they have.”

I find two ferrets, some rabbits, assorted mice and gerbils, hamsters and guinea pigs, there are lots of cute things to kill in the pet store. Aidan looks over the glass terrariums with turtles and snakes, spiders and scorpions, all the things that aren’t very cute but I still don’t really want to kill. I’m not even sure there’d be any point to this, if Cain’s even around for this to matter, because it’s just silence in my head even though he said he’d find me.

Aidan and I end up back at the wall of cats, looking them over like one is going to be less cute somehow, like this can be any less horrible than what it actually is.

“Maybe the oldest one,” I say. “Not one of the kittens, for sure.”

“Let’s ask which one of them is feeling sad,” Aidan says. “Let’s find a suicidal cat to throw under my car.”

“I don’t think you have to run it over for this to work.” I realize too late that Aidan’s being sarcastic and have to bite at my lip when he turns to look at me with an incredulous stare. I feel at the scar with my tongue and then try to straighten out my features into something of a smile. “Sorry,” I say.

He sighs and has that expression again, the one that I hate, even though I know he believes me so it’s the wrong kind of pity. He’s my best friend and wants to help, but I’m doing something crazy right now. I might not be crazy anymore now that he knows that it’s real, that I’m not making any of this up or seeing delusions, but I know Aidan thinks I’m acting crazy when he sighs again and says slowly, “Ethan, I’m not going to help you kill anything.”

“Okay. Well you don’t have to, I’ll do it. I'll do the actual killing. It doesn't matter which one, I guess. Let’s get that one.” I point at the friendly and sweet cat who’s asleep. He’s supposedly two years old, neutered, good with kids according to the paper tag. They’re all great according to the labels, because it isn’t like the pet store is going to advertise a bunch of asshole cats to adopt.

Aidan shakes his head. “I’m not doing this,” he says. “We’re not doing this.”

“But you’re eighteen and I’m not. I need you to fill out the paperwork,” I say. “That’s all, I’ll do the rest myself. Come on, Aidan -- please?”

This has got to be the weirdest argument I have ever had with Aidan. He shakes his head again and says, “No way. Ethan, no way.”

I can see by his expression that he means it, this isn’t going to be one of those times he’ll just go along with whatever his best friend wants to do. An entire childhood of me always deciding what we’re going to do, because literally every single time I’d ask Aidan he’d just tell me he didn’t know, whatever I wanted to do was fine. Except now I don’t want to play tag with the two older boys down the street or ride our bikes to the clubhouse, we’re not little kids anymore and one of us fell off a boat in the summer before tenth grade and went crazy. I want to kill things so I can talk to them, because apparently I’m a necromancer and not crazy or maybe still acting crazy.

It’s daytime, we’re in this pet store, there’s a strip mall parking lot outside full of Mommy minivans and Executive coupes and practical hybrid cars in sleek colors and shapes. There’s too many normal things, too much of this is normal for Aidan to go along with my crazy plan to find Cain.

“Fine,” I say. I turn and look at the collars and leashes on the rack behind us, fiddle with one to make the bell on it chime. “Fine. I’ll think of something else.”

He sighs and says, “Ethan.” Aidan gets closer even though we’re already whispering. “I don’t think you should try summoning a demon anyway.”

I glance around even though the store is barely open. We sat in the parking lot waiting for it to open, and then we both agreed to wait further until we saw someone else go inside. Like it isn’t suspicious enough already that we watched the employees pull up to park and unlock the doors.

“I’m not having this conversation here,” I tell him.

“Then let’s go,” he says. Aidan grabs my hand and makes it halfway to the door before remembering to let go. I’m pretty sure the old lady at the cash register is watching us, but I don’t blame her because of the way we both almost run to the car.

I slouch into the passenger seat, Aidan sets both hands on the wheel. “It’s freezing,” he says. He holds a hand to the vents to feel the air start to blow warm and then hot.

“I’d rather Cain be a cat again than inside me,” I say. “I think he’s easier to handle that way. He was mouthy but harmless enough as a cat, right? I just want to ask him some questions about Deimos, or, maybe he can keep Deimos from killing us. I don’t know.”

“Ethan.” Aidan needs a minute to compose his thoughts. He notches the air controls to turn up the defrost and then sits watching the slow melt of white into clear on the windshield.

“Ethan,” he tries again. “He’s a demon. A literal demon. I think it’s probably a really good thing that you can’t hear him anymore.”

“But you saw the cat,” I say. “Cain was the cat. And I saw him, on the Otherside, he looked totally normal. We don’t even know what makes him a demon, or what it means that he is one. Cain asked me what gods I knew. Gods, Aidan, as in plural. He asked what gods or spirits did I know -- what kind of question is that? Shouldn’t he know? If he were, you know, a fire and brimstone demon in hell or something."

Aidan closes his eyes and lifts his fingers from the steering wheel without saying anything, because this is the weirdest argument we’ve had in ten years of being best friends. He’s trying not to yell at me, because we’ve never yelled at each other, never really had many fights between us.

Finally he’s calm enough to look over at me again, mouth turned down and brows peaked with concern. “I thought you didn’t want to get involved in this stuff. Didn’t that Praxis guy make it so you couldn’t see dead people anymore?”

“Yes, no. I don’t know. Not anymore.” I kick my foot into the floor mat and gesture for Aidan to go. “Come on. Let’s just leave.”

The wipers run over the windshield a few times to clear the rest of the clingy matte cold before Aidan backs us out of the parking spot. “Well now where?” he asks. “Do you want to go home?”

“No,” I say. 

Aidan drives as if we’re going somewhere anyway while we both think it over. It’s not until he says my name again that I realize he’s still on about Cain. “Ethan, necromancy and demons and - and whatever else, it’s just not something I think you want to get involved with anyway, no matter what it means.”

We’re stopped at a red light, and Aidan taps his fingers on wheel while he waits. “You said Cain made you kissed me, and you were talking to yourself - or, to him, I guess, about how you weren’t going to kill me, so, I just think -- it’s a good thing you can’t hear him anymore. I mean… I’m _really_ glad you’re not dead, but it’s for the best he’s gone now. And I definitely don’t think you should kill anything to bring him back.”

I murmur something noncommittal but not rude, because I don’t want to fight with Aidan. I lean my shoulder into the door and pull the hood up on my sweatshirt to cushion my head against the window. After a while Aidan gets tired of waiting at red lights and takes to the highway. We start a loop around the city but for once he doesn’t try to weave around all the other cars. He just sits in the far right lane and puts up with braking and slowing for everyone in his way.

Aidan turns the wheel some to start to get around a semi and has to wait instead for a motorcyclist to zoom past. I eye the flashy red sport bike and get a glimpse of a flapping blonde ponytail under the equally flashy red helmet.

“That's a nice bike,” I say to Aidan. “Do you think my mom would ever let me get one?”

“Not for long. She would sell it or give it away to keep you from driving it,” Aidan says. “Promise you’ll let me ride it before she finds out though, if you decide to get one.”

“Sure,” I say. 

He chuckles some as he switches lanes to drift past the long trailer and then the cab of the truck. He flicks on the radio and asks what I want to listen to, but I say I don’t care. I’m not trying to sit over here sulky and sullen as if we really did have a fight, it’s just that all my ideas on what to do involve death and demons. Aidan’s right not to listen to me, because I just want to listen to Cain again. 

Traffic starts to clog things up more and more as we get near downtown. Coming around the curved corridor of sound-dampening wall that lines the highway we get stopped by a long snarl of red brake lights. It’s stop and go as Aidan scrolls around radio stations.

“Let’s get lunch,” Aidan says. “Where do you want to eat?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “Wherever I guess.”

We pass two more exits at a slow-crawling inch. Eventually we come to a stop beneath an underpass and don’t budge for a while. I keep looking out the window at the rumbling shadow of the bridge overhead, and all I can think is what would happen if it were to suddenly collapse. I’d have so many dead bodies around me, unless I died too.

By the time we crawl forward again to get clear of the underpass, I’ve realized my best chance at getting a dead body is to use my own. I should probably be a lot more concerned about how easily I think about suicide, but I spent way too much time thinking it already so I just kind of feel resigned about it. Which is probably why Aidan should start making the decisions about what to do, so it’s a good thing I’m sitting over here silent and sulky as if we’ve been fighting.  

Aidan has to stop again and then it’s a lot of shuffling as two police cars squeeze past. Cars stream into the resultant gap and Aidan gets aggressive at last as he cuts off a sluggish box truck and pretends not to see a jaunty yellow hatchback flashing its blinker.

I realize Aidan’s goal is the next exit, but traffic wants to go the other way. As we get closer through the dense line of everyone going the same way except us, I see the flashing swirl of blue-red emergency lights.

“Oh, there’s a wreck,” Aidan says. “Damn.”

He has a better line of sight as he waits to dive forward into a spot about to open. He’d been wedging his way into the left lane, but now he spins the wheel the other way to curve back.

“Is there an ambulance?” I ask.

“Mmm… I can’t see,” he says. He’s distracted trying to both look to answer me and to also check before switching lanes again now that he knows the exit ramp is blocked by the wreck.

I roll the seat belt strap over my arm and shoulder and slide a hand over the latch. I wait until we're only moving by inches and then snap open the buckle. My hand fumbles over the car door when Aidan yelps and hits the gas first by instinct. We jolt forward before he brakes hard, and I get the door open amid the back-and-forth jerking.

“Ethan!” He tries to grab for me, but I’m already out of the car and dashing into traffic. I’m not sure if I really hear him shriek my name again after me or if I just know that he does.

No one wants to slam their car into a kid running across the highway, and everyone’s pouring along in a stream of slow braking anyway. I just make sure the drivers see me before darting in front of their cars, and soon as I hit the safety of the shoulder I start running.

I have no idea what I’m going to tell the police if they try talking to me. I think I just need to get near, in case there’s anyone hurt, dying -- am I really doing this? Am I hoping to find someone dying? I come down from my run into a jog and then slow to a walk when I get in sight of the wreck. I didn’t have to do anything about the dead cat except stand there on the sidewalk while it got hit, but am I really hoping that this car accident has proved fatal? They’ll take the dying body to the hospital anyway, that’s what ambulances are for. Aidan was right, Cain was right, my complicated world is full of safety and rules, protocols, dead and dying people all end up in hospitals.

There’s an ambulance and police cars, orange cones and flares, a tow truck getting into position and much further ahead the long shattered skid of a beautiful red bike so I start to walk quickly again. I need to get on the other side of this police car before I can see what’s going on at the parked ambulance with silent spinning lights. I’m coming up on the backside of the crash where a bulky green pickup is swerved into the back of a utility van, and none of the accumulated unharmed bystanders interacting have long blonde hair.

I’m noticed by a police officer who starts to come toward me. Soon as she gets near I ask, “Is she okay? The motorcyclist, is she okay? My girlfriend has a bike like that, I saw and thought maybe it was her...” I stop walking and point briefly before deciding to lower my hands.

I cannot believe I just voluntarily ran toward the police after having become a quasi-runaway. I haven’t heard from my mother yet, so I’m fairly certain she hasn’t reported me missing. I’m too nice of a kid for her to think that I’m doing anything worse than ignoring her -- she probably went to bed and woke up thinking I came home late and left for school early. Eventually the school’s going to notify her I skipped, and that’s when I expect my phone to start blowing up with texts and calls. When I ignore her then, that’s when she’ll file the missing person's report.

Regardless I try to look harmless and worried -- it’s a harmless enough lie to claim I recognize a motorcycle, saying it's my girlfriend means I get to look breathless and weird. The cop doesn’t seem angry with me for being here, either, especially since I’ve stopped moving and am being cooperative. I’m definitely going to cooperate with the police. I'm a harmless bystander, concerned about my made up girlfriend, I hope I don't sound obviously gay or anything.

The cop smiles some. She’s stockily put together with a sloped shelf of a chest and bursting hips straining under the swath of her uniform pants. She looks about my mom’s age, and the smile I get is actually pretty reassuring even if it means no one died here or is dying. I try not to be disappointed.

“We have a male driver involved here,” the cop says. “Don't worry. Your girlfriend’s fine.”

I’d only seen the ponytail and the flashy red bike, I hadn’t paid much attention to the driver. I’ve somewhat ironically used the wrong gender. I look past the cop at what of the wreck I’m close enough to see.

“Oh. Okay, thanks.” I have no idea what else to say. There’s no awkward follow up where I say that I actually meant to say boyfriend, because that would sound suspicious and probably crazy. I should consider myself lucky that I can just turn and walk away now, but I keep standing there just staring at the cop.

My phone starts to pulse with a ringtone that makes me dig it out hastily to make sure it isn’t my mother. Since it’s just Aidan I answer with, “Um, hey.”

“Ethan!” He squeaks my name with enough fear and relief that it sets my stomach into churning. I hear the whisk of cars in the background, and he shouts to make sure I’ll hear him. “Where did you go? Are you okay?”

“Um, yeah. I'm fine. I went to look at the wreck.” I turn to look at the stretch of moving cars flowing past the blocked ramp. Behind me the tow truck starts to move with a steady warning beep and the soft grinding protest of beaten together metal.

I glance back at the police officer before seeing what’ll happen if I start to shuffle down the shoulder again toward the highway. She doesn’t seem likely to stop me as I move further away. “Um, where are you?” I ask Aidan. “I’m walking back.”

“I pulled over, I’m parked on the shoulder,” Aidan says. He sounds painfully relieved. I hear the car door open and then shut, his end of the conversation gets a lot quieter. “I’ll wait for you here.”

“Okay. I’m coming back.”

“Yeah. Okay. I’ll wait here.”

It’s weird to stay on the call now that we’re done deciding what to do -- usually we’d just hang up, but he doesn’t so I don’t either. We’re more inclined to text or chat online or hang out in person, neither of us likes to spend long on the phone. Most of our calls are under a minute. I know because my mother asked me about the phone bill once, when I was twelve or thirteen, back when I only ever gave her the simplest, stupidest things to worry about, and she couldn’t understand why I had pages and pages of one and two minute long calls. I started texting more after that.  

“Um, do you see my car?” Aidan asks.

“Not yet.” I glance back the accident scene and don’t see the cop anymore. I walk a little quicker and then break into a soft jog. “Now I do,” I tell Aidan. “I see your car.”

“Oh, good,” he says. “Okay. Yeah, I think I see you.”

Still neither of us hangs up, so I’m jogging with the phone against my ear and must look completely ridiculous. I slow to a walk and get further away from the moving cars. Last thing I want to do is get hit. I glance over at the traffic and then get the phone shifted so it isn’t creating a blind spot.

“Do you want to get burritos for lunch?” Aidan asks. He’s turned around in the driver’s seat to watch out the back window. As I get closer to the car, I can see the worry plastered all over his face.

Even as I’m walking around the car toward the passenger side we keep the call going, so my reply of, “Sure,” makes a weird echo since I say it with the door open. I hang up, tuck the phone into my pocket and say, “Yeah. I could do burritos,” before closing the door.

Aidan hangs up as well, gets settled and buckled before turning off his hazards. He puts the car into gear and flips his blinker for the merge back onto the highway. He breaths deep and sighs, focused back on the traffic and driving but I bet he’s thinking of what he really wants to say.

I try to beat him to it like I usually can. It’s one of the reasons we have so few fights. I’m better at figuring out what Aidan needs to say before he actually has to say it, and neither of us is shy about apologizing. “Sorry. For running off like that, I’m sorry. You know, the wreck, I just thought --”

He cuts me off with a quick, “Yeah. Yeah, Ethan. I know. It’s fine.”

It doesn’t sound fine. It sounds like I scared the hell out of him, and he looks quietly pissed about it. I try again to apologize, but he cuts me off, sharper, punctuating it with a sideways glance. “It’s fine,” he insists. And then he turns mumbling as he adds, “Just -- don’t do it again. We should stick together, okay?”

“Sure,” I say meekly. “Okay.”

After the stretch of a little awkward silence between us and some bland alt-rock on the radio, I lean over to spin the dial around looking for a top 40 station. Aidan gets us out of the traffic on the highway and into the calmer if no less densely packed local streets.

“Is it this shopping center?” he asks. He slows down but hesitates over his blinker as we creep nearer the turn-in for the parking lot.

“Um, dunno. I’ll look.” I pull out my phone and then I hear this small, faint, barely-there voice that I’m probably imagining because it is just almost nothing.

_Abel?_

“Cain?”

I whisper, but it doesn’t matter when Aidan’s right here in the car with me and I’ve just sat upright like a dog hearing someone at the door. Aidan looks over at me, but my attention’s wholly focused on this otherworldly hush of the demon who found me at last.

_Hey, sweetheart. Miss me?_

I’m reminded of when he was trying to find me on the Otherside, how he sounded so raw and ragged. Cain sounds even worse now, I can barely hear him, he sounds battered and hurt even though that seems impossible. He’s just a voice -- but not a voice inside me, I realize.

“Where are you?”

_Stuck in a dead body. You’re a shitty necromancer._

“How are you stuck?”

_Can’t move. I told you to keep it clean._

“But I didn’t kill anyone,” I say. “I - I didn’t kill anyone. Where are you?”

_What part of stuck in a dead body didn’t make sense to you, princess? Does it sound like I know more than that? You’re the fucking necromancer, you stupid piece of shit, stop asking me questions and fix this._

I cannot believe how awful he sounds. I don’t mean what he’s saying is awful, I mean the harsh pant of each hard-fought sarcastic word. Cain sounds like he’s in agony. I blundered my way into a huge mess by running toward the accident scene and then immediately running away again. I have no idea how to help Cain. I have no idea what I’ve done but clearly I’ve done something, and I have no clue how to fix it without asking Cain a lot more questions.

It’s only when Aidan says my name that I remember he’s even in the car. He’s got me held by the shoulders actually, the car’s parked, he’s crawled halfway across the console to grab me. I turn my head some to look sideways out the window at the shopping center.

“Ethan,” he says. It’s that tone that tells me he’s been trying to get my attention for a couple snaps of my name already before resorting to shaking me like this. He does it again, digs his fingers into my arm and shakes me. “Ethan, look at me.”

“It’s fine,” I say to Aidan. “I’m fine.” I lift my arms to try breaking his grip, but Aidan doesn’t let go. I see he’s locked the car doors, although that won’t keep me from simply yanking the lock open before jumping out again if I want. Not that I want to, and the more Aidan tightens his hold on me the less I try getting him to let go.

“Are you talking to yourself, or is it Cain?” he demands. He looks terrified.

“Cain,” I say.

_What?_

It sounds like a groan, pained to the point of losing the heavy drip of sarcasm. I draw in a long, shaky breath and try to smile reassuringly against the weight of Aidan’s stare. “Nothing, not you. I meant -- I’m not possessed this time. Cain’s not inside me. I’m not sure where he is, neither is he, but he’s not here. He’s not me.”

_Who are you talking to?_

“My friend, he knows about you. We were about to get lunch.”

“Ethan.” Aidan’s fingers dig into my arms. “Ethan, please, stop it. Stop talking to him.”

“He hears me just if I say something. There’s not … like a special way to talk to him or anything.”

I squirm and push gently enough about it that Aidan lets me go, he trusts that I’ll cooperate. He slowly sinks toward his side of the car again, still staring with such a look of horror and fear that I start to feel horrified and scared.

“I need to go back to the wreck,” I say. “I think - I think I put Cain into that motorcyclist’s body on accident. We need to see if the body’s still there or if it already went to the hospital.”

_Are you being serious right now, Abel?_

Aidan’s expression says something similar, except he jams the keys back into the ignition and churns into life the purr and rumble of the old battered sedan. I see Aidan shudder and swallow. His hands grip the steering wheel with his foot still on the brake even though the car’s in gear. My fingers itch to reach for the seat buckle, the door handle, but I just promised I wouldn’t go running off again without Aidan. He looks ready to refuse though. I bet he’s thinking about that cat we both saw get hit by a car, that half-flat dead cat’s body that Cain made run around, and how I’m asking him to help me get a human body up and running around just the same. At least I didn’t make him help me kill anything.

“Okay,” Aidan says finally. He eases the car into motion. “Okay, let’s do this.”


	10. Chapter 10

Aidan circles and circles to find somewhere to park as near as he can to the accident scene. He keeps a hand on my arm as he drives slow and reaches over every time that he brakes. It’s kind of like the sudden stops where he sticks his hand out like that’s going to keep me in place if we crash. It’s always kind of cute when he does it, but I don’t think it’s cute now. I think the last time I saw him look this scared we were single digits still.

“Okay,” he says. He lets me go and shifts the car into park. Aidan looks over at me before saying, “Okay,” again and taking the key out of the ignition.

He gets out of the car without taking his eyes off me, and I decide to keep sitting there. He glances around some but doesn’t turn his head from me as he quickly walks around the back of the car. He is terrified to take his eyes off me now that I’ve started talking to Cain. I wonder if he thinks I’m going to become Cain again, try to kill him or fuck him again. I keep sitting right where he left me, exactly how he left me, so he knows I’ll cooperate. Only once he’s in front of the passenger door do I reach for the handle, but he beats me to it.

The door swings open as if Aidan were my chauffeur or maybe more accurately my bodyguard. He steps back so I can get out of the car, and he seems ready to grab my arm or maybe just tackle me if I try to move too quickly away from him.

I decide to take hold of his hand, as if we were still stupidly small, and I’d feel silly except for the way it obviously makes him feel better. He is just so scared that I’m going to run away on him. He keeps a tight grip on my hand as we stand on the curb waiting to dart across the street for a better look at the accident scene. His brows are together, his mouth is turned down, Aidan focuses intently on watching the cars as he looks left, right, left again, back to the right, once more to the left.

“Okay. After this truck. Ready? Now,” he says. “Let’s hurry, okay?”

I think he might cut off the circulation to my fingers as he clamps down on my hand and pulls me after him into the street. I match his awkward burst of a fast-jog to get across to the opposing sidewalk. There’s not a car anywhere on the road coming at us, but we run anyway.

Aidan walks me a little ways down to where the ramp is in sight. I cup the side of my hand into my brow to block the crisp chill daylight and stare at the normal-enough looking wreck. The pickup’s been hauled away, but the utility van has puttered into the shoulder or been dragged there.

I see the mom-cop mill around with another police officer pointing at the road or gesturing. The motorcycle is still there but no sign of the driver, no silent-spinning ambulance lights just more cops and emergency crews to get the road cleared. As we watch someone starts pushing broken glass aside with a broom. In a few more hours it’ll be like nothing ever happened.

At my side I hear Aidan say quietly, “The body’s probably at the hospital by now.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I know,” I say. “I know.”

I don’t know what else to say, because Cain’s going to hear it. He’s going to know just what a terrible mess of things I’ve made. I don’t blame Aidan for being scared. This is an incredibly scary thing that I’ve done. I am terrified to admit to Cain that I’ve lost the body I found for him, or rather I guess I’ve lost the body that he found me in.

I drop my voice to a whisper. “Cain?”

_Yo._

His rasping weak voice cuts through me even though he’s soft about it, barely audible and so faint it scares me. He doesn’t even sound sarcastic anymore. I can’t stop thinking about after Cain took over my body he kept looking at the sky and clenching his fist with everything hurting.

I speak quietly, murmuring the words as gently as I can. “Cain, I don’t know where you are. You’re not here. Or, I do know where you are -- you’re probably at the nearest hospital. Um.”

I pull my hand free of Aidan so I can get out my phone. He glances around to make sure no one except him is near as I start talking to a voice only I can hear. I tap quickly to search on the map for the nearest hospital but already know that’s not good enough because there’s three total with two nearly equidistant from where I’m standing by the wreck.

“I’m sorry,” I say to Cain. “I didn’t mean to - to have it be like this.”

_I told you to keep it clean. Big messy wreck with police and shit ain’t clean._

“I know. I know, I’m sorry.” I switch apps on my phone and start typing searches into the browser to try finding a news article on the wreck. “What happened though? Why are you stuck? Can you move at all?”

There is such a long pause that I see Aidan lose interest and start messing around on his phone. I lean forward on the pedestrian safety rail along the sidewalk and peer down at the crash site like that'll possibly help me help Cain.

_I fucking hate you._

There’s no heat to it, no anger. I don’t know how to interpret the sulky silence that follows, and I’m not finding anything on my phone to help me either. I feel at the scar on my lip with my tongue and try to fight the panicky urge to keep apologizing to Cain. I’ve never heard someone sound this tormented and hurt. I’ve really fucked this up and know it.

I stick the phone back in my pocket and turn to Aidan. “I need my laptop.” I look back at the car and squint against the afternoon sun. “I need my laptop from the house.”

“Okay,” says Aidan. “Sure.”

I start for the car, but he snatches my hand again before I get too close to the curb. He doesn’t say _wait for me_ like when we were little kids, but I wait for him anyway. I let him decide when we’re going to dart across the street, too, so he can look back and forth carefully and check that it’s clear.

Back in the car Aidan checks his phone before starting to drive. He glances in the rearview mirror at the blue-red flash of the police lights. “What are you going to do?” he asks me.

I shrug and glance out the window at nothing. “Find out who that motorcyclist was, I guess, and try to get information on the crash. I need to figure out which hospital has Cain.”

Aidan gets quiet and focuses just on driving for a while. At last he asks, “Want to grab something to eat on the way?”

“Yeah,” I say softly. “Sure.”

His desire to ask me what kind of food or where we should stop is nearly palpable, but he’s quiet. We’re both quiet. I’m still looking out the window, even though what I’m really doing is trying to listen for Cain.

If it hurts him to talk I don’t want to keep pestering him, but I don’t know what to do if he won’t answer my questions and has stopped telling me what to do. I don’t know what it means that he says he’s stuck and can’t move, but it’s obviously not a good thing. Nothing about this is good.

“I’ll stop for gas,” Aidan decides. “We can get sandwiches at the same time.”

I murmur something agreeable and shift to get comfortable against the door. I know Aidan’s sitting over there thinking of what he really wants to say. I’m sure it’s something about Cain, about the crash and the body. I can probably guess what he wants to say. I should have listened to him in the first place, even if I didn’t kill anything to bring Cain back.

Aidan turns into the gas station and circles to get in position at one of the pumps. He hops out to swipe his card and punch through the options on the payment screen but abandons that effort soon as he sees me getting out of the car. He’s halfway around the car and coming at me like it’s going to be a tackle, so I get deliberately way too slow and reassuring.

“I’ll go inside to get the sandwiches,” I say.

He looks less ready to tackle me but doesn’t stop coming toward me. “It’s fine,” he says quickly. He doesn’t grab my arm but looks like he wants to, even though I’m standing there passive and cooperative.

There’s not much puppy-dog about his big, brown eyes as Aidan glances between the pump, the car, me, and the gas station with its big wrap-around windows. He looks more like an attack dog, my new fierce bodyguard who is terrified of letting me out of his sight. He hastily feels at the lump of the keys in his pocket and then shifts his hand over to feel at the rectangular bump of his phone as well.  

“I’ll get the sandwiches. You pump the gas,” he decides. “Stay with the car.”  

“Okay.” I take a step away from him only so I can get closer to the pump. He takes a step back toward the gas station with matched caution. I glance aside, shuffle, get nearer to the pump and take the nozzle off the handle.

Aidan looks between me and the gas station again like he’s regretting this decision. He tries to keep an eye on me as he heads inside, and then those big windows let us trade stares as he gets in line to order us lunch while I stand there listening for the click of the nozzle once the tank’s filled. Posters and advertisements clog up the windows, so Aidan’s not subtle at all as he goes up on tip-toe and leans funnily to make sure he doesn’t sight of me.

Once the tank’s full, I go tell the payment screen there’s no need for a receipt. The nozzle clatters back into place, and I get back into place as well. Hopefully it’ll reassure Aidan all the more to see me get back into the car to wait for him. I’m sitting down, I’m buckled, the doors are locked.

I lean forward to better watch Aidan as he’s at the register trying to pay without taking his eyes off me and the car long. He juggles the bag holding our sandwiches into the same hand that’s holding a soda and then digs out his phone. I see him glance up to check on me before he looks down at his phone and moves his thumb over the screen. He checks on me again and then lifts the phone to his ear.

“Shit.”

_Break a nail, sweetheart?_

Nice as it is to hear Cain regain some of his sarcasm, I’m short with him as I snap, “No. Shut up,” because I think I’ve figured out why my phone’s been silent all day. By now the school definitely would have contacted my parents about me skipping, and the only explanation for why my mother isn’t blowing up my phone with worry is that she already knows where I am.

I think quickly and try to recall if I’d seen Aidan using his phone, but of course he has been. Suddenly him deciding to leave me with the car while he goes inside makes sense, because if our positions were reversed then I wouldn’t be sitting here waiting for him. I’d be walking back with the sandwiches, and he wouldn’t have enough time to make a phone call where I can’t hear him talk.

I yank open the lock and shove the door open. I told Aidan I wanted my laptop, that I needed to go to my house to get it, and I’d bet anything that Aidan’s on the phone with my mom right now telling her to move her car, get out of the house, make it look safe so they can make it a trap. Get me inside, get me away from Cain even though I don’t even know where he is yet. I’m on the sidewalk when Aidan first shouts for me, so I break into a run.

“Ethan!”

His second shriek is closer, so much closer, and I try to skid to a halt before he barrels straight into me. The soda goes flying out of his hand as he lowers his shoulder to take me hard in the chest. The bag holding the sandwiches sails into the air. Aidan slams me into the grass behind the dumpster like he’s expecting a fight, but I’m passive and go down easy for such a full-body tackle.  

Aidan’s hands clench into my sweatshirt. “Okay!” I yelp. I squirm only because he’s trying to wrangle on top of me to pin me down. “Okay, I’m sorry. Sorry.”

His fingers are trembling as they snatch and bunch the excess fabric of my hoodie. “Fuck,” he breathes. Aidan leans in for a moment to stare close at my face, and I wonder frantically what he thinks he’s going to see.

He pulls back and then shifts to crouch on his heels without letting me go all the way. “Fuck,” he says again. He watches the soda roll further down the sidewalk as he catches his breath and smears the tears off his cheeks. “Ethan, I’m not stupid. I was making sure your mom wasn’t at home first. I’m covering for you. I - I’ve been covering for you. You don’t have to run. I’m not going to turn you in or anything."

He claws together more of my sweatshirt before finding my hand again. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I started texting my mom last night. I didn’t want her to worry, you know? I told them -- my mom, your mom, I just said I was with you. I said we’d gone out of town, that you wanted to and I - I said I went along to keep you safe. Which is kind of true, I guess.”

He looks frustrated, scared, I’m genuinely sorry for him that his nice best friend isn’t just crazy. I’m not crazy, I’m not a delinquent. I’m something nightmarish and unexplainable. I speak to demons, I see dead things, talk to them, bring them back, I don’t even know what all I can do except Aidan knows I’m not crazy or lying, I’m not making this up.

His parents divorced when he was six and his mom remarried two years later, whisking him into a new school, new house, new town, new dad, new little sister -- and me. A new best friend. An entire childhood of being best friends who spent a lot of time just hanging around studying and doing homework, two nice kids our moms didn’t have to worry about much. Of the two of us I always got into more trouble -- simple, stupid problems like minute long phone calls, giggling a bit too loud while pretending to be asleep during sleepovers, sometimes scraping my knee or maybe just spending too much time on the internet.

Now I’ve run off from everyone except Aidan, and he keeps a firm hold of my hand so I won’t do the same to him. “Yeah,” I say. “Okay, sure, no -- I’m sorry. I won’t run. I just, I thought -- I’m sorry.” Cautiously I get sitting upright without letting go of Aidan. I think he’d tackle me back down again if I tried to free my hand.

Aidan shakes his head and gets to his feet. He pulls me up with him and looks me over with concern in case I smashed anything on myself in the fall. He squeezes my hand before letting go. He picks up our fresh-flown lunch and the shaken-rolled soda. He brings them back to where I’m standing and offers me a sandwich. I roll back the somewhat smushed together wrap of paper to get a big bite. Aidan watches me just holding the plastic bag with his sandwich still inside.

“Come on,” he says. “I need to move the car from the pump.”

I speak around a mouthful of lunch. “Okay.”

He waits for me to start walking back before following. I get back into the passenger seat and he climbs into driver’s side. Aidan glances back to check the nozzle’s out of the car and the gas tank is closed before he starts up the car. The locks jolt into place as he rolls forward.

“D’you want your sandwich?” I ask.

“In a minute,” he says. “Don’t open that soda.”

“I won’t.” I keep eating my sandwich to prove to him I’ll cooperate again. “Sorry,” I say. “You promise you’re not going to turn me in?”

“Yes. Yes, I promise. Ethan, it’s fine. We're going to get your laptop.” He checks to make sure I’m buckled, the doors are locked, he has us moving. His hand hovers near my arm anyway. “But you’re not trying to get a body out of the morgue.”

I’m silent except for chewing. Aidan drives to the office complex near the country club and parks there to eat his half-exploded meatball sub that didn’t quite survive the takedown. We decide to open the soda outside the car and it's salvageable.

“What if Cain can get the body moving?” I ask. “Would you help me sneak him out then? He could be stuck in, um, the cabinet. The metal drawers, you know?” I gesture a bit because I’ve seen cleaned up bodies covered in sheets lying on rolling tables in morgues -- on television, in movies, I know real life is different, but it's got to be something similar even if it's different. 

“How would you get down there?” Aidan asks. “They have cameras. There are people everywhere to see you. The doors are locked. Ethan, no. Absolutely no way, I’m sorry. You just can’t, okay? We’re not doing that.”

When I shrug and murmur he frowns, Aidan looks over sharply when he waits at the light. “Ethan?” he prompts.

“I don’t know,” I say. “I just don’t know, okay? I don’t know what I’m doing.”

_Yeah, no shit._

I snort softly and then have to rub my face to keep Aidan from seeing my smile. It shouldn’t be funny, but Cain’s snarky commentary is better than sulky silence. I wait in vain for him to say something more, like maybe how I can fix this for him.

Aidan turns into the neighborhood and winds his way toward my house at a slow crawl. “I don’t see your mom’s car,” he says.

“It could be in the garage.”

We stare at my house from the bottom of the drive. “I’ll go up. I’ll go get it,” Aidan says. We’ve been sitting with the engine running and the heater going full blast for a while. “Ethan, if I go get your laptop, do you promise to stay with the car?”

“What if I see my mom?”

Aidan hesitates with his hand over the keys before he unbuckles from his seat. “Sit here,” he says. “If you see your mom, then take my car at least. Don’t try to go on foot.”

I unclasp my seat belt while meeting his wide-eyed scared stare. We traded ghost stories once when camping, just some stupid tent in my backyard, with the house sitting empty so we thought we heard noises. I think that was probably the last time I saw Aidan look this scared, because if I was going inside to check then he’d come with me. He didn’t want to wait alone in the tent.

“I’ll go with you,” I say. “We should stick together.”

“Okay,” he says at once. He jerks the keys out of the car. He’s out the door quick and comes around to get me by the arm. “Let’s hurry though. You don’t want to get caught.”

“Yeah.” I stare at Aidan for too long thinking of how it felt to kiss him. The scar is bumpy under my tongue as I feel at it, chew nervously at the bitten-in red mark. I think about kissing Cain and feel heat rush into my face. “Thanks. I won’t run again, I’m sorry.”

“Sure,” Aidan says. “I’m on your side in this, you know.” He hesitates and then hugs me, he puts his arms around me and pulls me in tight. We stand there past the point of being awkward before Aidan remembers to let go. By the red-cheeked look that he doesn’t give me, I wonder if he’s thinking about kissing me as well.

The surge of anger I feel for Cain making this awkward makes me second guess helping him at all, but of course I poke my way into my quiet, empty house to get my laptop. Aidan washes his face at the sink and borrows clothes of mine to change into while I hastily pack. I get my laptop and charger, up-end my backpack on the bed and shove aside all my books to start cramming in socks and underwear, fresh shirts, my toothbrush and deodorant.

We end up running back to the car and laugh with giddy relief about it as Aidan starts up the car and floors it forward over the curb. Even the grinding metal-on-cement protest and extra bouncy turn of the wheel sets us into nervous giggles.

It doesn’t help I can hear Cain ask, _What’s so fucking funny?_

I tuck myself into the passenger seat and dig up a pair of knit gloves from what all I’d shoved into the backpack. I try to whisper since Aidan’s still chuckling softly as he spins up the radio as we make our getaway.

“Nothing, we’re okay. I have my laptop. I can find out where you are now.” I don’t get anything back from Cain, so I keep murmuring as I tug on the gloves and rub grateful warmth for my fingers. “I’ll look on the internet for you. I’ll find you there. I have more than enough information to dox you.”

“Ethan?” Aidan’s gone quiet, he’s swapped a relieved smile for a worried frown.

“Yeah,” I say quickly. “Sorry. Talking to Cain. Um, I need wifi, so --”

"Okay. Sure." Aidan sighs but doesn't say anything more. He keeps his eyes to the left before turning right out of the neighborhood again, he hates waiting at that light. He has to make two extra turns later to go south for the highway, but still he’d rather keep moving than risk sitting stopped for long. I tap my fingers impatiently on the lid of my laptop before lifting it open to at least logon. 

Since Phobos found us at the bookstore, Aidan pulls into the parking lot of a shopping center across town with enough open wireless networks in range that I can connect to one and start looking. I tug off the gloves, and Aidan keeps the heater going now that the car's already warmed up. On my laptop I have access to the sites my phone can't find. Aidan sets the parking brake, locks the doors, and then unbuckles to scoot closer. He leans in to see over my shoulder.

Gruesome photos of motorcycle crash scenes scroll over the screen as I try to look for only the absolute most recent. I use lists of the best gore message boards on the dark web and check the newest posts on each. Aidan murmurs about how gross it is while I try not to look at anything too closely once skimming for pictures or a location, anything specific to narrow the results. 

“No way,” Aidan says. He sees the link and description as I quickly click into the photo set to confirm. “Oh, no way.”

It’s a handful of crooked cell phone photos taken from the front end of the crash before the police arrived on the scene, before the ambulance arrived, the raw reality of my complicated world laid bare. It’s not even that brutal of a photo, no blood in sight, the bright splotch is a flashy red helmet with a blonde braided ponytail curled on the pavement, a small gold curl in a shaky picture. A horrible freak accident, this nightmarish truth of human fragility, the motorcycle driver decapitated and it’s no wonder Cain can’t move. I didn't get him a body at all. 


	11. Chapter 11

Aidan hands me two round pink pills and a microwave popcorn bucket with a bottle of water resting inside. Looped into the crook of his elbow is a plastic shopping bag full of other supplies from the convenience store. He dumps the bag into the back floorboard and then takes the water bottle out of the popcorn bucket that I’m just holding in both hands. 

He twists off the cap some before nudging me with the partially-opened bottle. “Here,” he says. He watches to make sure I swallow the medicine, drink some of the water. My stomach cramps dangerously but accepts defeat now that my lunch ended up splattered into the parking lot already. 

In between finding the photos of the accident site and then trying to explain to Cain, I choked on the words and it was a good thing we were stopped. Even if Aidan did try to keep me in the car at first when I bolted into the door, but soon as I started retching he almost shoved me into the pavement trying to help. 

“I’m okay,” I tell him. “I feel okay now.”

“Do you want me to drive, or…?”

I shake my head some. I drink more of the water and rub the back of my hand over my sweat-slicked forehead. “I don’t know,” I say. “No, not yet.”

Aidan slides my laptop into his lap and brushes his finger over the trackpad to make sure it stays awake. He clicks cautiously on a few things before simply closing the lid. “Can you ask Cain about Deimos now?” Aidan glances over at me as he packs away my laptop. 

“I think it hurts him to talk. He’s being sulky, um, I can try though, I guess. Cain --”

_ I can hear you, dumbass.  _

“Oh, right.” I pull my lip in to chew it, and Aidan comes closer to set a reassuring hand on my arm. “Um, at the exorcism. Did you see the pretty blonde with nice hair? The bossy one, Phobos, he said Deimos would want to come kill me because of you. Because you’re a demon. What do I do about that?”

_ Nothing. You get me a body, and I’ll handle Deimos if he comes around, all right? Listen up, Abel. Here’s what we’re going to do.  _

I press my knees together as I sit forward, my shoulders straighten. I’m ready for Cain to tell me what to do, and I hear the strengthened rally of his voice. He’s snapping the words at me in an assertive-brusque growl that’s masking his pain better than the sarcasm and anger he tried before. 

_ I’ve been thinking it over, and the situation’s critically fucked. I’m throwing in the towel on this one. I’m going back to the Otherside. No point in sticking around for a mess this big. Good try, though.  _

His sarcasm is full-throttle, but I’m just so disturbingly relieved that Cain isn’t truly stuck in a headless corpse. I run my tongue over the scar on my lips and stir in my seat. “I can’t kill anyone. Cain, I - I couldn’t even kill a cat. I just can’t kill anything, I’m sorry. Is there another way I can bring you across? Or can you come inside me again?”

I hear Cain’s deep, rumbling chuckle and shiver as I realize just what I asked. “N-no,” I stammer. “That’s not what I meant.” I remember Aidan’s listening, realize Aidan’s watching, look up to see Aidan staring and feel my nerves turn molten fire with embarrassment. 

_ Relax, sweetheart.  _

Cain purrs the words at me so that I squirm and shudder, gasp and moan as my scar seems to blaze and grow numb all at once. 

_ You’re close, kid. You’re close. I’ve found you, but this one’s too messy. Try another. No witnesses, no police. Keep it clean. _

“No, I can’t. Take me instead.” The words slip out of me, I can’t stop them. “Take my body instead. Would that work? Take me. I’ll kill myself, will that work?”

“Ethan, no!” Aidan vaults across the middle console and grabs my shoulders. He’d be loud enough to drown out Cain if the response wasn’t just a ruefully amused laugh. Bruises cut into me as Aidan shakes furiously to get my attention. “Ethan, you are not killing yourself! Ethan!”

_ It’d probably work, but you’d be a dumbass to try it. _

“Okay!” I yelp. “Okay, okay, I won’t. I won’t.” I hold my hands up defensively and look reassuring enough that Aidan stops trying to cut off the circulation to my arms. I look him squarely so he knows I’m talking to him and not Cain. “I won’t.”

Aidan’s brow crushes together as he keeps his hands on me, he actually strokes at my forehead like he’s feeling for a fever. “You’re not killing yourself.” It’s remarkable how stern he sounds, considering how terribly I have terrified him. We are so beyond ghost stories in tents now.

“Ethan?” he prompts. I’d been looking out the window listening for Cain, my attention drifting enough that he noticed. “Ethan, look at me. You are not killing yourself.”

“Cain says it’s a bad idea anyway. I won’t.”

Chalk-white devastation floods Aidan’s face as he stares at me. He chokes a swallow that makes me think I might need to offer him the popcorn tub, the best thing Aidan could find in the convenience store in case I got sick again while he was driving. 

“What are you going to do?” he asks me. “Ethan? What’s Cain telling you to do?”

“I don’t know. Cain says he’s going back to the Otherside. I need to kill something else, or, I mean, find another dead body. Um --” Each word that I utter makes Aidan flinch and squirm as if struck. I feel bad he has to listen as I ask Cain, “What kind of rules are there? How soon after them dying can I show up? How close do I need to be? Can I just walk up and down the hospital hallway maybe? Sit in the waiting room? I’m not sure I can get into the I.C.U. or the O.R. but --”

_ No. Fuck that. Miraculous recoveries aren’t clean, and it hurts like a motherfucker to piece a body together. _

“You did it to mine.”

_ I did it for you. There’s a difference.  _

Knots twist through my stomach at the tone Cain uses, snarky-soft something that makes me think about kissing him, the scar, worse -- I think immediately of Cain fucking me. I curl my knees into the passenger seat with me to try escaping Aidan’s clutches a little. It works enough to get him slowly eased back to his side of the car. He doesn’t take his hand from me, he keeps it on my back in a way that suggest he’s ready to dig in for a fistful of sweatshirt if he needs to.

I try to speak quietly. “You have a body on the Otherside. Can I bring it across?”

Aidan wants me to talk to him again. I can tell by the way he strokes a hand over my back and calls my name, but I turn my head aside so he knows I’m listening for Cain. As I wait I drink more of the water and shake the condensation from my fingertips.

I finish the water and toss the empty bottle into the backseat. “I’m okay if you want to drive,” I say. “I think I’m okay now.”

“Okay,” says Aidan. He doesn’t move toward the wheel but instead keeps his hand fisted into my sweatshirt hood. “What are you going to do?”

I shrug, which is at least genuinely honestly even if it’s not helpful for Aidan. “I don’t know. I don’t know what to do.”

_ I do. Get someone alone, choke them out quick. Simple and clean. That’s how you do it. I’ll handle the rest. _

“I can’t. I won’t. No, I’m not killing anyone for you. I can’t do that.”

From Cain I get a furious snarl that’s like nails on chalkboard, like nails raking hot coals over my heart, I push my forearm against the glovebox and hunch into myself with a moan. Aidan grabs the popcorn tub and frisbees it to floorboard between my ankles. I scrunch my eyes shut until Cain’s anger is less intense, less palpable over the flare and burn of the scar he left me with.

When he speaks again it’s a measured warning full of dark promise, dire threat.

_ I could compel you, Ethan.  _

The breath leaves me in a rush. I know he could. I gave him my name. I gave him my body. He owns me now, this demon. “Don’t,” I whisper. “Please.” The laugh I get from Cain is rumbled cruel amusement, playful torment like when he fucked me, and I wish Aidan wasn’t in the car within literal arms reach. 

I press my body against itself, bury my face in my knees. I ball together around the hard-pounding throb from the scar and my cock. I remember everything about Cain fucking me and feel the overwhelming desire to find him, I need him, I need to find Cain. If that means killing --

“No! No, I won’t. I don’t want to. I’m not killing anything!” I clamp my hands over my ears and curl tighter. “I don’t want to!”

I’m sobbing when Aidan tugs me apart, gets the top half of me pulled into his lap. “You don’t have to,” he tells me. “You’re not going to. Ethan, you’re not going to kill anything.”

I never should have started listening to Cain. I knew it’d be like this. I don’t know what else I thought to expect, I don’t know why I thought to do this at all. I feel possessed again except my body is mine, Cain’s just a voice I can hear -- not in a voice in my head except I can’t make him stop. 

_ You dumb stupid kid. _

Cain’s seething anger caresses smooth the jagged cuts he ripped into me, his snarky raw roughness affectionate in its familiarity. It has to be because Cain’s a demon that the rolling heat of his voice sets my nerves on fire. 

_ Sure, why not. Why the fuck not, sweetheart. We do it your way. We do this the hard way, because fucking Princess Abel can’t kill anyone. You are the dumbest fucking necromancer.  _

A warm huff follows, an ethereal sigh like sparks and hot smoke escaping a vent. I’m not sure if there are words tangle into the exasperated noise. I hiccup a sob into Aidan’s thigh, press the hem of my sleeve into my eye to stop crying. The grey fabric comes away dark and wet in a long oval. 

“I don’t want to be a necromancer.”

_ Tough shit. I don’t want to be dead. You ready to stop sniveling and get to summoning?  _

“No,” I mumble. Aidan’s hands tighten over my back. I’m whispering this into my sleeves, I know him only hearing my half of every conversation makes it awful. “Tell me what to do though.”


	12. Chapter 12

“This is such a bad idea,” says Aidan. “Tell me we aren’t going to do this.”

“I’m doing this,” I say quietly. I clench my hands into the beach towel currently taking up space in my lap and stare forward out the front windshield at the dark-rippling water. Aidan has the heat going full blast in the car because I’m sitting in a pair of swim trunks and flip-flops, the temperature outside is somewhere just above freezing, and I’m about to go fishing for trouble in a very literal sense.

Aidan rubs his hands into the steering wheel and then rests his forehead into the plastic curve. His eyes close as he sighs. “What if it doesn’t work?”

He pulls his head off the steering wheel and looks out at suddenly and grabs his phone out of the console. I lean toward him and put a hand on his arm to drag the phone screen nearer until I see he’s looking up how to give CPR.

”This is such a bad idea,” he says. He scrolls over the screen as he reads the article, looks at the pictures. His eyes are intense on the small screen, he’s going to memorize every word like prepping for a test.

“Most of Cain’s ideas are.” I offer Aidan a smile, but it’s not surprising he doesn’t return it. He ignores me as he taps into another article on his phone. “This’ll work though. I’ll be okay.”

Aidan’s expression twists, but he doesn’t say anything. He thumbs off his phone’s screen and then tosses the device back into the console. He looks out at the choppy waters of the lake and sighs. “Are you doing this no matter what?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I’m doing this.”

“Okay,” he says. Resigned, like that was the answer he expected. “Then let’s do this.”

Aidan grabs two fleece throw blankets out of the shopping bags in the backseat and rips the price tag off one before tossing it at me. I pull it around my shoulders as I stare at the water and try not to think about how cold I’m about to be soon as I step out of the car. I try not to think about what I’m doing, so I can focus on doing it.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Aidan says to me. He’s arranged the extra towels and other blanket in the back, he’s popped open some instant hand warmers and has them sitting piping-hot ready. I try not to think about how cold it’s going to be outside the car.

I curl the blanket under my chin. “Yeah, okay. I’m ready.” I keep sitting there a minute longer before grabbing the door handle and bursting into action.  

The cheap flip-flops snap into the bottom of my heels as I dash over the pavement and then down the wooden pier. Aidan catches up to me when I’ve tossed the towel and blanket both aside, climbed over the rail, and started lowering myself down into the water. My shivering turns violent as the icy cut of the water line finds my toes, ankles, the rest of my legs, I force myself to let go of the wood and fall into the frigid lake. It sucks the breath from my lungs, pulls a yelped curse from me. I shiver, my teeth chatter, I try not to think about it.

“You okay?” Aidan asks. He sits with one arm braced through the rail and dangles his feet and other arm toward the water. My chauffeur turned bodyguard turned attack dog is now pulling double duty as a ladder and lifeguard.

Swears whisper over my shivering lips as I huddle into the submerged support beam, the slimy-slick wood somehow marginally warmer than the surrounding dark water. I force myself to let go and stutter my arms into the water to paddle from underneath the pier.

“It’s so c-c-cold!” I nearly crush my tongue on my chattering teeth as I speak. I try not to think about what I’m doing. I plunge under the water to check the depth and know it could be deeper, have no idea if this is going to work, feel terrified and rocket back to the surface.

Icy tendrils drip from my hair when I resurface, and I wipe a hand over my face to clear my eyes. “I’m not sure I can do this,” I call to Aidan. I jerk my limbs to tread water, I’m shivering so impossibly hard that it’s all I can do move in ways that aren’t spastic twitches and flails.

Aidan leans toward me looking relieved. “Okay. Give me your hand, I’ll pull you out.”

I shake my head. “No. No, I have to do this. I can do this.”

I drift back from the pier, swim out a little ways until I hear Aidan call nervously after me. He grips the rail as he stands. It’ll take a swan dive and several hard breaststrokes for him to get to me now, but Aidan’s always been a better swimmer than me. It’s oddly reassuring to think about all the times I’ve gone swimming with Aidan, seen Aidan swimming, I know he’s a strong swimmer.

My parents have a lake house, couple hours away, where they keep the boat, where Aidan and I spent a lot of time in the summer, I should have made Aidan drive me out there. I could have done this during the daytime had a lot more privacy than this lake in the center of town where people go jogging in the mornings, where teenagers make out on the playground equipment, and where apparently I’m going to summon a demon from the Otherside.

“Okay. I’m going to do it.” I take several deep breaths and then slip under the water. I hear Aidan call after me just before cold oblivion rushes into my ears, so I miss the words. Knowing him it was ‘okay’ back or maybe ‘be careful’ or possibly ‘hurry’ because I might freeze to death before I can find Cain.

I dive with a hand outstretched until my fingertips brush the mud and muck at the bottom of the lake. I pull my hand back and try to forget exactly where I am, try to think only about Cain. The cold crushes my chest, it’s so cold it hurts, and I try not to count the seconds as I hold my breath. I don’t think this is going to work, I don’t see how this can work, Cain couldn’t be serious when he suggested this as an option. This has to be punishment for not wanting to kill anyone.

The first uncomfortable twinges I can relieve by letting a trickle of bubbles escape, but it doesn’t seem long at all before panicked pressure builds and builds. My body twists and thrashes, my lungs feel like bursting, I claw into the mud as I struggle not to let natural buoyancy take over. The cold helps, it makes it hard to move, my eyes open and then scrunch close. It’s so impossibly dark under the water, there’s nothing to see except my own panicking limbs, all those bubbles.

I need to focus on finding Cain and not pay attention to the desperate jerk and shudder of my cold, submerged body. If Cain can’t find me, is Aidan going to be able to find me? How long is he going to wait before jumping in after me anyway? I told him to wait twice as long as he thinks this should take and then to wait a minute extra to be sure, but he knows I can’t hold my breath more than a minute anyway. He’s a better swimmer than me. It’s pitch black under the water, Aidan’s going to have a hard time finding me.

I don’t need Aidan to find me, though, because I’m going to find Cain. Except I’m not sure this is going to work. I told Aidan it would, promised him this would work, I have to believe this is going to work. Cain said he’d find me, and how can I be hard to find? I’m right where I said I would be -- alone, dying, submerged in darkness, oblivious to everything that isn’t this moment and my thoughts of Cain.

And then I hear him, I hear this beautiful soft voice that makes my heart leap.

_Gotcha._

Suddenly I don’t feel cold anymore -- I feel hot. Heat flows over me, a warmth that starts at my lips and spreads. I reach desperately, strain my hand into the void with the same desperation as my lungs strain for air, and then I feel a hand clasp into mine.

Breaking to the surface is like all the lights going on at once. First thing I hear once the water drains from my ears is Aidan, shrieking. Black void takes shape into shadows, city lights, the choppy break of the water. Cold air slaps my face, I choke mouthfuls of the lake over my chin and rake hard with my lungs to snatch at the chill.

“Quit your screaming!”

The rumble and vibration of Cain’s voice sears into my chest, traces into the spots on me he’s holding. I’m cinched under his arm, pulled into him, this can’t be happening. I can’t believe it worked.

Cain tugs me along as he swims, it’s his same body as I saw on the Otherside except he’s wearing nothing but water. I feel nothing but water and Cain, not even the cold. It has to be because he’s a demon that it’s hot where Cain holds me.

That or I have hypothermia, I think I might be half-drowned. All I do is cough and choke trying to breathe as Cain swims back to the pier where Aidan is waiting.

“I remember you,” says Cain. His brusque rude tone borders on hostile. “You’re the friend too good to fuck.”

White gleams all around the frightened circle of Aidan’s eyes. His hands tremble as they snatch fistfuls of me away from Cain. He hauls me into the railing. I drape half my body over it trying to hold on with the numb weight of my arms.

Aidan notches his foot into the wood and vaults over. He pulls me onto the pier and gets the towel around me, envelops me into the blanket, I’m moving on my own enough to nudge blocky-cold feet into flip-flops even if it takes three or six shivering attempts.

Half this shaking isn’t me, I realize it’s Aidan shaking me and hissing softly, “Ethan, go to the car! Go back to the car!”

“C-Cain,” I shiver. I’ve started to shake and shudder, I think that means circulation’s returning. Aidan frisks his hands over my arms, my back, trying to rub warmth into me even as he’s trying to shove me into motion.

He gets me moving forward despite the way I keep twisting to look back for Cain. I stare over Aidan’s shoulder at where a completely naked Cain climbs up the side of the pier. Aidan glances and then turns his whole head to start staring. His fingers grip into me with a gasp.

A sneering toothy grin spreads over Cain’s face as he strides toward us, completely unabashed to be nude. He stalks likes a panther approaching prey. He looks demonic, a handsome devil of a young man, some punk prankster dripping wet and shivering. I can’t believe he’s shivering. I can’t believe this worked.

“Fucking freezing out here,” Cain says. He looks to the parking lot where the old sedan’s advertising loudly that it’s warm and waiting. “That your car?”

He barely waits for the affirmative stammer from Aidan. Cain slings his arm around my shoulders to drag me forward. Aidan grabs hold of my hand like it’s going to be a fight only until he realizes Cain’s taking me to the same place he wants me to go anyway.

“Backseat,” I tell Cain. “Towels there.” It’s teeth-chattering cold again, wracking shivers with pins-and-needles replacing the leadened numb. I assault the uncontrollable waver of my hand toward the door handle only to have Cain beat me to it. He throws open the car, shoves me inside, and then immediately follows in after me.

Hot air fills the car, I hear Cain groan appreciatively and remember that he was shivering. What kind of demon shivers? I find myself staring at him, I just cannot stop staring at Cain and not just because he’s naked. I am mesmerized by the way his fingers flex and bend to pick up the towel off the seat. Blunt-edged nails cap the slender lengths of dusky-tan skin. Shouldn’t a demon have claws? Cain only has fingers, normal human-looking fingers.

I slowly remember to rub the towel into my hair only because Cain does it with the other towel. I’m already wrapped in a blanket, but I remember as well to stop dripping water into the second blanket and offer it to Cain. “Here.”

The driver door flies open long enough to let Aidan tackle the seat like he’s expecting to fight. He grabs at the keys and the wheel, one in each hand. The door closes after him. He stares at us both in the backseat and lets out a held breath. “This is Cain?”

“Yeah,” answers Cain. He rubs the towel down from his hair to let it drape over his shoulders.

Aidan’s works together another calm breath and then nods. “Okay,” he says. He turns around long enough to fasten his seatbelt before deciding he doesn’t want to keep his eyes off Cain either.

With all the doors closed the car goes dark again except for the glow of the dash. Aidan has the headlights off, the car’s idling at a low purr, Cain’s dark eyes surely cannot be glowing either as he watches us both just stare at him.

Cain shifts and says, “I’ll drive.”

“No. No, nope. I’ll drive.” Aidan snaps around in his seat and throws the car into reverse. I see him look wildly to double-check that I’m in the car, and then he jerks us back with a loud squeal of rubber on pavement. He wheels hard to the right and starts to brake but not all the way. The car’s still rolling as he shifts into gear. “I’m driving,” he says firmly. “This is my car, I’m driving.”

Aidan glances back in the mirror to check on Cain, but he’s lost interest now that we’re moving and the matter established. This demon I pulled from the Otherside simply sits in the backseat of my best friend’s car, entirely too real, not wearing more than a blanket and towel.


	13. Chapter 13

Cain’s dark eyes gleam in the passing streetlights as Aidan drives anywhere that’s not letting a demon behind the wheel of his car. I huddle into the blanket, get cozy with the hand-warmers to coax feeling back into my numbed fingers and toes. My reflection in the dark glass of the window is pale, tremulous, I’m a drowned-looking cold thing lumped into the back of Aidan’s car.

Suddenly Cain leans into the middle console. Aidan grips the wheel like he’s expecting a fight as he glances over, but Cain only reaches for the volume on the radio. He cranks the vapid pop music and then starts spinning the tuner to scroll the digital indicator through stations. He finds static, a commercial for a car dealership, country music, rap, another commercial, and then settles on rock music. Cain next starts messing with the air vents, he pokes the dome light on and off, he adjusts the audio balance between the speakers. He hits the eject button to get a long-forgotten CD spat at him, and then he immediately feeds the disc back into the slot.

“Huh,” Cain says quietly. He’s scowling at everything like it annoys him, amuses him, like he’s trying to figure out my complicated world just as much as I stumbled around trying to feel shadows and smoke on the Otherside.

He flops into the backseat again, and I’m horrified on Aidan’s behalf at the casual way Cain sprawls wet and naked across the leather grain of the seats. The towel and blanket barely keep him decent. I try not to stare, but of course I’m staring at Cain. Even Aidan’s trying to stare in the rearview mirror. It’s impossible not to stare at Cain, especially he starts watching me back.  

Streetlights pass over Cain’s face, and I have to be imagining that his eyes stay bright each time it gets dark. He’s scowling, half-annoyed but starting to smirk and smolder as we sit staring at each other in the quiet dark backseat of the car. His hand reaches out to grip my chin as he did before, when we met on the Otherside. I wonder how different I look to him, if I look different at all, because he looks exactly the same to me. I don’t know what on Cain I want to stare at the most, but with his hand holding my face I find myself focusing on the dark entirety of his eyes. I become obsessed with looking for the shaded difference between pupil and iris.

Cain runs the edge of his thumb over my lower lip, and it’s a touch that traces fire. I shift closer to him, feel pulled toward him by the caress. I feel the warm skin of his leg against mine as I abandon my half of the backseat to get nearer to Cain.

My fingertips brush over the back of his hand, they circle his wrist and glide along his arm. He’s just all this warm, damp skin for me to feel. I move an entranced gaze over his face, his glistening wet hair, I watch my own hand as I touch Cain’s shoulder and then neck. Cain cocks his head to the side some as I feel the thrum of pulse at his throat. I can’t believe that he’s really here in my warm safe living world.

I watch the rise and fall of his chest, as mesmerized by that as anything else about him. I keep my fingers on his pulse, stare at the smirking set of his lips. I tell myself I can’t really hear each soft breath and heartbeat beneath the noise of the radio, I tell myself that it’s only my imagination that Cain seems to get closer and closer because he’s not moving.

I’m the one moving, I’m the one pressing against Cain for a kiss. The scar flares, small sounds of desire pour from my throat, I make the most terribly lewd moan when Cain kisses me.

I see the close-up gleam of Cain’s eyes before his lashes close, my lashes close, I’ve started this tender, warm kiss between us that ignites into flame when Cain responds. His touch is a match tossed into the hapless kindling he put inside me. I’m burning, hot hard burning for Cain.

I grip my left hand into Cain’s shoulder, curl my right hand against his wet hair. He strokes a callused palm over my knee, sets a hand into my lower back, uses his touch to guide the way I spread into his lap. He kisses me with a sultry eagerness that’s pure sin because he’s a demon, his touch is a poisoned addiction that saps my strength and numbs my thoughts.

I’ve forgotten all about Aidan until he slams on the brakes. I collide into the back of the empty passenger seat and then nearly crash foreheads into Cain. I yelp, Cain snarls, the car rocks to a halt amid Aidan’s startled, “Oh fuck!”

“No, nope. No way,” Aidan says. “Not happening.” He throws the car into park and then twists in his seat. He glares at Cain -- my sweet, shy best friend looks ready to start throwing punches as he glares down Cain.

I trust nothing about the sardonic twist of Cain’s mouth, but I’m almost too frightened to look at him at all. I can’t believe I was kissing him. I can’t believe my dick’s this hard just from kissing Cain. I can’t believe I want Cain to fuck me again so desperately that I climbed on top of him in the backseat of Aidan’s car.

Aidan’s hand closes over my arm. “Get in the passenger seat.”

I should explain, in case he was more focused on driving than watching us, but Aidan pulls like he’s just going to drag me off Cain if he must. He gets a second hand on me to try getting more of me away from Cain faster. He’s frantic to get me away from Cain, even though Cain’s not putting up a fight at all. There is indescribable danger in the lazily-frustrated and half-amused way this demon watches these two dumb kids scramble around scared of him.

I have to look away from Cain before I can actually start moving away from him as well. I should explain this to Aidan, except, I’m not sure at all how to explain that I’m crazy enough to want to fuck a demon.

I clamber between the seats and then reach back to get my towel. I try to flash Cain an apologetic, sheepish smile, but when his brooding glare shifts to me I nearly swallow my own tongue. I want him like I’ve never wanted anything in my life, and it’s terrifying. My desire is an unmanageable beast within me clawing to get free.

Meekly I face forward and get the towel under me to spare Aidan’s seats from my wet swim trunks. I can’t risk looking at Cain again. I barely want to be in the car with Cain anymore. Now that I’m not looking at him -- not touching him -- it’s easier to think about things that aren’t Cain.

Once Aidan has me in the front half of the car with him, he starts to snatch at our belongings. He wants more things away from Cain, I guess, and not just me. My backpack gets moved into the floorboard of the passenger seat along with one of the shopping bags. As the crinkle of plastic and fabric hits my ankles I see it’s the one holding my sweatshirt, jeans, and sneakers.

Since I’m too scared to look back at Cain, I watch Aidan and find him no less easier to observe. He looks as desperately scared as I feel, probably for the same reason, maybe for entirely different reasons. I wonder if he didn’t really believe me about Cain, even after everything, because certainly everything about this is unbelievable.

Aidan touches lightly at my knee. “Get dressed.” He murmurs to slip the words beneath the background blaring CD mix. He glances toward Cain and then doesn’t say anything else as he pulls away from the curb. When he switches turn signals to avoid waiting at a red light,  I realize he’s just driving again without a destination in mind.

I look down at the shopping bag and grab handfuls of fabric, I tug into my sweatshirt first and then next warm socks from my backpack. I try to tell myself everyone in the car’s already seen me naked at some point or another, but I still feel shy about stripping out of the swim trunks to get slipped into clean boxers.

I’m tugging my jeans into place when Cain’s left hand grips the back of Aidan’s seat. His right elbow goes into my seat’s headrest as he leans forward. He takes up an exorbitant amount of space within the confines of the car. The lights of the dashboard illuminate his sharp scowling expression in strange soft ways. I scoot nearer to the window, because I can’t keep my eyes off Cain. Cain looks out the front windshield at the spread of city, and then he just starts watching Aidan drive. Understandably this makes Aidan incredibly nervous, and I don’t blame him in the least for looking more and more panicked the longer that Cain keeps silent.

Finally Cain asks, “How much longer until we’re there?”

Impatience flattens his mouth and sets a downward pluck into his dark brows. He’s looking to me for the answer, because somehow Cain still thinks I’m going to know anything. “Uh, um.” I find my mind entirely blank of anything except the truth. “I don’t know. We’re just, um, driving.”

It makes Cain chuckle, and his brusque laughter draws a smile over my face. I’m cognizant of the way my cheeks wrinkle and my lips spread, but the gesture doesn’t seem fully formed -- it doesn’t seem to be entirely my doing. My body wants to behave in strange ways around Cain. I want to throw myself into his arms again. I dig my fingers into the seat cushion instead.

“Just driving, huh?” Blunt-edged nails snip playfully at the back of my neck.

The strain of my body’s desire for Cain is torturous. I manage a nod. “Y-yeah.”

Cain smolders a sideways glance to Aidan for a moment before shifting the full of his attention back to me. “Hot shower and a bed sounds real fucking great, don’t you think?”

Snarky, sarcastic, like he’s mad I’m not already thinking about these things. A squiggly line between his brows draws my attention, and it takes nearly every ounce of willpower I possess not to reach out and try smoothing the creased skin.

Within me worry takes root and blooms as Cain speaks again, as he shifts further into a braced lean. It has to be my imagination that Cain seems exhausted. “What’s the matter, sweetheart? Scared to take me home to meet Mommy and Daddy?”

He rumbles a soft, mocking laugh that doesn’t make it any easier for me to pay attention to what he’s asked, how he’s asked it. Not helping either is the slow pluck of his fingers, the irresistible lure of Cain being this close. The tight clench of my fingers into the seat cushion slowly eases. I move a hand toward Cain. I’ve forgotten about Aidan again, forgotten about everything except Cain. I remember the raw, ragged strain of Cain’s voice earlier calling to me from the ruined body of the motorcyclist, how tormented and hurt he sounded.

I sweep the tentative caress of my touch over Cain’s hair, behind his ear, his cheek, I cup his face with both hands. The tender warmth of a pink-tinged blush fills me, and my lips part in anticipation of a kiss. When I lean toward Cain, though, I catch a glimpse of the way Aidan’s staring. His knuckles are stark white against the wheel. He's ready to plow the car into oncoming traffic in order to keep me off Cain.

My heart’s pounding as I pull my hands from Cain. I settle them into my lap, I knit the fingers together. “I can’t go home,” I say.

“Why not?” Cain demands. “That house was swank.”

The up and down hunch of my shoulders can’t give him much of an answer, nor does the way I start slouching. I look at my hands rather than face Cain’s likely anger. I’m not prepared to articulate just all the reasons why I no longer fit into the place my parents made for me. I’m too scared to even admit how much the idea of going home frightens me and fills me with despair.

“His parents think he’s crazy now thanks to you,” says Aidan. “That’s why he can’t go home. You’ve ruined his life.”

It’s blunt and quick like the swing of a bat, so all I can think about is the little league game where Aidan hit a homerun. It’s the dumbest thing to suddenly think about, but I remember the searing heat of the day, the pinging crack of the aluminium bat, the soaring little white dot, the look of dazed disbelief on Aidan’s round face as he had to run around all the bases. Slow, pudgy, awkward little Aidan, who only joined the team because his best friend wanted to, winning for us the last game of the season. I remember bouncing up and down inside the dugout screaming encouragement as loud as one eleven-year-old can scream, and I wonder if I started screaming like that now if Aidan would understand.

Aidan keeps going. He is nowhere near around all the bases yet. “Dartmouth, Stanford, MIT, CalTech -- none of them are going to take him now. His grades aren’t the best anymore, he’s been out of his mind crazy because of you messing with his life. You want him to kill people, and now there’s someone trying to kill him because of you. So where’s the first place they’re going to think to look? His house, maybe at school, and where are the two places his parents are going to keep him just as soon as get their hands on him? His house and school. Assuming he isn’t just hospitalized right away, that’s a possibility, he’s still a minor.”

“You’ve really messed this up for him. Just, everything. His whole life. Totally fucked.” The light ahead turns yellow, and Aidan slows slightly before deciding to burst through the intersection instead.

I hear Cain say, “Huh,” just as quiet and strange with it as when he was exploring the stereo system on the car. Then Cain’s hand tousles my damp hair, he pushes from a hard forward lean.  

I turn my head some to watch peripherally as Cain settles into the backseat again. Cain drapes his arm over the rear deck of the sedan. “I said I’d handle Deimos,” he sneers. Noticeably he offers no apology or explanation for the rest of Aidan’s accusations. I’m still trying to process them, and they were about me.

Aidan says nothing further, neither does Cain, I’m terrified of opening my mouth and making this somehow worse so I stay silent as well. The radio compensates but can’t make it any less awkward and tense. I keep my eyes on my lap, on my hands. Entirely too much awkward emptiness occupies my thoughts until I think to get out my phone. Hopefully it'll help distract me from thoughts of Cain, of how much I want to kiss him. There is a terrifying depth of want within me regarding Cain that I'm not prepared to think about.  

After a few minutes I realize Cain’s going to see the glow in my lap and hastily thumb off the screen before he can ask to use the internet again. I turn some to peek at Cain and then turn further as the cautious glance turns into staring. Once we’re at a red light Aidan can’t skip, I reach my hand over and gently pat at his leg. I nod my head toward Cain, because I’m pretty certain he’s fallen asleep. His head’s rolled into the crook between his shoulder and the headrest, the blanket’s pull across him like he put it there on purpose, and he’s stopped scowling at everything. 

Though that line’s still between his brows, that line I wanted to smooth with my touch. I can too easily see for myself that he’s not bruised or bleeding anywhere, but I know he’s in pain. I just do, I know Cain’s hurt. He somehow looks all the more exhausted asleep. I don’t think any of this has been easy on him either. 

A different red light, Aidan’s turn to reach over only he’s not being gentle about it. He’s trying to push me, shake me, and I realize I’m turned around in my seat staring at Cain. I’m clutching the back of the seat, my cheek’s rested against the headrest, and as I startle out of that position I feel my expression rearrange. I think Aidan just caught me literally sighing over Cain like he’s a hurt puppy.

“Stop that,” Aidan hisses at me. “Ethan, he is a _demon_.”

“Okay. Okay, I know.” I fight Aidan off me and sulk low into my seat. I shift to where I can’t see Cain and then look out the window.

My gaze settles on the side mirror, at the slivered reflection of the car’s interior. I wonder if Cain’s okay. He’s not usually this quiet. I can’t believe he’s sleeping. I pull my eyes from Cain’s shadowed reflection. Aidan leans forward to check if the intersection is clear and catches my eye. We swap mutual apologetic smiles. 

He reaches to turn down the radio and then instead shifts the audio to the back speakers. He fiddles with it while keeping an eye on Cain in the rearview mirror. Once he’s happy with the volume he asks me, “Where do you want to go?”

I shake my head some and say, “I don’t know. Somewhere, wherever. You can’t drive all night.” 

“I could maybe,” Aidan says. The squared, determine set of his mouth tells me he’s serious. “I’ll stay awake and drive. Let's stop to get coffee."

I smile some and comb the rapidly drying fluff of my bangs to one side. “You are not driving all night," I insist. "We should stop somewhere. Cain’s right that a hot shower and bed sounds nice.”

Aidan shakes his head. “We’re safer if we keep moving.”

“Cain said he’d handle Deimos,” I counter.

Disapproval twists the stubborn set of Aidan’s mouth. When he glances over at me, though, his expression softens into that pitiful one where he’s realized I’m crazy. “Okay,” he says. Quiet, placating, and he sets a comforting hand on my knee. His hand stays there as he drives.

We’re done talking about what to do, apparently. Aidan’s realized I only want to do what Cain wants to do, because I’m crazy enough to listen to a demon. I didn’t even have to explain to him that I’m crazy enough to want to fuck a demon, too, because I’m pretty sure he’s figured that out as well. He’s figured out I’m sitting over here having lusty gay thoughts about this hot naked man currently asleep in the backseat of the car, and I wish it was just that simple. I wish Cain wasn’t a demon. I wish so desperately I didn’t have to be crazy.

My gaze drifts to the side mirror and the dim reflection of the car’s interior. An entire childhood of getting to tell Aidan what to do because I could be trusted with it -- I was faster, tougher, smarter, bolder, more outgoing, more popular. I was always getting new toys and attention and best of all, I liked Aidan enough to be his fiercely loyal best friend even though he was such an awkwardly shy and timid kid, bullied sometimes when I wasn’t around to stop it, always picked last when I wasn’t there to pick him first.

That day he hit the homerun, my mom took us out for ice cream afterward. I couldn’t shut up about how cool it was, how great it was. Aidan mumbled something about how he wished his family could’ve seen it, and that made me realize that my mom always drove us since Aidan’s mom was busy with his baby sisters. Three seasons of little league, and I never once saw Aidan’s mom at a game or practice, never saw his stepdad or half-sisters. We ate ice cream in silence after that. We played video games the rest of the day. Aidan stayed the night. My parents woke us up fighting. I remember being embarrassed, angry, feeling betrayed that my normally quiet and empty house was being filled with their problems.

It was the first night I saw Aidan’s expression soften with sudden understanding that his all-star perfect best friend’s life wasn’t so perfect after all. That night Aidan whispered to me about the kind of fighting his parents did before getting divorced, and he told me he was too happy about the lack of bruises on his mom to ever complain about feeling left out of her busy new life.

My parents wanted me to fit into the place they made for me so much they ignored the actual shape I wanted to be. I’m the epitome of square peg, round hole. That round, normal life with NASA posters, straight-As, asking pretty Stacy Gershwin to prom, little league and Ivy League, a life I lost in the careless instant I slipped on the deck of my father’s boat. Me hitting that rail, going into the water, it killed the boy my parents wanted me to be, the one they think they can still make me into if they squeeze hard enough.  

But Aidan’s mom, she wanted to make a place for him but just didn’t have the time. She was too busy fixing things, too busy getting out of a bad marriage and into a good one, and Aidan’s such a good kid that he did the work for her. He found a place for himself outside of the happy domestic chaos of his mom’s new life -- he found me, and he found a place at my empty house when his was too full of the family he’s half-and-step part of anyway.  

I turn my face from the window. I look away from Cain’s reflection to focus on Aidan, until he notices and glances over with a worried, encouraging smile. “Okay?” he asks. He squeezes my knee when I don’t say anything right away, when I just keep staring at him. “Hey, you okay?”

“Yeah.” Belatedly I drag my eyes off Aidan, force myself to stare out the windshield at the hood ornament. I don’t say anything else or elaborate, because the truth is that I’m not okay. I’m not okay at all with the realization that I’m ruining Aidan’s life.

 


	14. Chapter 14

There’s a logic puzzle about a farmer needing to cross the river with a fox, a chicken, and a bag of grain. He can only take one thing on the boat with him, and left unattended the fox’s going to eat the chicken, the chicken will eat the grain, it’s a classic puzzle. I can’t remember the solution.

Someone has to go inside the store to buy Cain clothes. As the naked one, Cain stays inside the car. Cain cannot be left alone with the car, and Aidan doesn’t want to leave me alone with Cain. Equally unpleasant for Aidan is being left alone with a demon, even one sleeping like Cain. I’m not sure if it would help Aidan decide what to do if I explained about the river crossing riddle.

I end up being sent inside to negotiate the midnight megamart crowd alone. Aidan stays to guard over his car and Cain alike. We text continuously to reassure the other it’s okay. At first I pretend to need help eyeballing Cain’s size before we settle on medium. Then Aidan asks if I’ll get him a bottled coffee. Flavor options and then a long series of mutual _OK_ s about nothing follow.

Aidan is painfully relieved when I return to the car. He’s left it running for both the heat and the music, anything to keep the status quo with Cain asleep. The front seat and floorboard overflow with the shopping bags even before I squeeze underneath and around them to make the crowded situation worse.

“Got it?” Aidan asks. He helps get me a little less buried by transferring a few things into the back behind his seat.

“Yeah.” I glance at Cain briefly, which means only as long as it takes Aidan to leave the parking lot. If I keep watching Cain then I’ll be too tempted to wake him up, too tempted to ask if he’s okay. It strikes me as especially cruel that all Cain wanted was a hot shower and a bed, but we’re making him sleep in the backseat of the car with just a cheap throw blanket for comfort.

Aidan’s hand jostles my shoulder. “Hey.”

“Yeah, okay.” I’m already turning around to face out the front of the car again, so I just flash Aidan a meek, apologetic smile. Much as I’ve ruined his life already, the least I can do is spare him the torment of playing chaperone on top of everything else. 

He smiles and twists open the bottled coffee. I help clear space for him to use the cup holder, and Aidan settles in with stubborn determination to keep ruining his life. I wait until we’re on the highway, when Aidan’s got the cruise control set. I wait until he’s relaxed and not expecting trouble.

I ask it quietly, put my eyes down at my knotted hands. “Will you go to school tomorrow?”

“What?” He sounds as startled as I anticipated, but I don’t glance up to see his expression.

“Tomorrow, school. Will you go? Promise me you’ll go. I want you to go to school tomorrow.” I tighten the nervous, tangled ball of my fingers. “Will you?”

A long silence between us stretches, even though the minutes themselves are noisy. There’s the rumbling purr of the old sedan’s engine, the spin and rush of the tires over the pavement, the droning beat and wail of the stereo system. I look at my hands. I bet Aidan’s watching the road. Both of us are probably thinking the same kind of things.

Aidan’s only got this last semester and then he’s done, graduated, with the state college already accepting him under early decision. He has a scholarship waiting. He’s going to live in the dorms. I didn’t apply anywhere in-state. We figured it out early that we wouldn’t be going to the same college, resigned ourselves to the inevitability of getting separated this summer. He’d move into the dorms at his school, I’d move into the dorms in mine, there would always be chatting online, texting, we just wouldn’t get to hang out in person anymore. I’d come home for long weekends and holidays, so would he, and we’d see each other then, it didn’t seem like a big deal.

Now Aidan’s right -- I’m not getting into any of the schools I applied to, not with the way my grades have been, with the test scores I submitted. Not with the way my life derailed between fourteen and fifteen. I’m not going to college. I’m not going to finish high school. I don’t know what I’m going to do, but I know my life is over. 

Aidan shifts in his seat. “I’ll go if you go,” he says. “I’m not leaving you alone.”

I don’t think if I said my immediate plan was to stay with Cain that Aidan would be reassured. “I can’t go. If I go to school then I’ll have to go home, too. And you said it yourself, I can’t go home. You can, though. You can go home.”

From Aidan I get a sigh and then more silence. I peek up from my lap to watch him instead. Aidan checks the rearview and left side mirror before drifting a lane over. We roll past a slow-moving semi.

“If I show up at school without you, I’m going to get a lot of questions about where you are,” Aidan says. He’s thought it out enough to start arguing with me. “And then who knows if I’ll be able to meet back up with you later. I might get grounded for life. Or at least until graduation.”

I’m hoping exactly that happens, but I don’t say it to Aidan. I just shrug. “I’ll have my phone,” I say.

Aidan shakes his head. “No,” he says softly. He reaches over and touches my leg, pats my knee, leaves his hand there. “We should stick together.”

I promised Aidan I wouldn’t run off again, but if he’s going to be this stubborn than I don’t see how I have a choice. I’m ruining his life. I can’t ruin Aidan’s life. I know entirely too much how painful, humiliating, and terrifying it is to lose control of your life. I don’t want him to be tormented by dead things, I don’t want him to feel isolated from everyone and everything that once brought him comfort, happiness, and a sense of belonging somewhere.

The only place I feel like I belong anymore is here in the passenger seat of Aidan’s car. It’s the only place I feel sane. Since all this started, he wanted so desperately to believe me -- to believe in me, that I wasn’t crazy or if I was crazy that I could beat it, I could get over my mental breakdown like it was strep throat or bronchitis. He wanted to help. Seances, ouija boards, anything out of books or off the internet that I thought might work, he was willing to help.  

I don’t want to lose Aidan. He’s my best friend. I stare at the steering wheel and wonder if I yanked hard if the resulting crash would kill us. It’d certainly attract a lot of attention and trouble, all those impossibly complicated things about my safe, regulated world that make things difficult for Cain.

Aidan shakes my knee again. “Hey. Ethan.”

“Yeah. Yeah,” I say quickly. I snap my gaze from the steering wheel to the hood ornament and then turn to face the window. I don’t want Aidan able to see me get zoned out like that so easily. I think I must look too obviously devastated, too obviously floundering around in dangerous waters about to make a bad decision.

“What are you going to do?” he asks. Quietly, like he’s dreading the answer.

I shrug and then decide to be honest. “Whatever Cain wants.”

From the corner of my eye I watch Aidan frown, fret, look devastated and floundering in his own way. His desire to somehow help, to somehow fix this, it’s overwhelming. His expression knots my stomach, hurts my chest, I have to look out the window. He’s forever going to be on the safety of the pier watching me swim toward my own reckless self-destruction.

“Maybe kill myself,” I say.

I don’t mean to say it. The words slip over my red-marked lips in the heavy sigh of my breath. I want to snatch them back just as soon as I’ve said them. Quickly I say, “I won’t. I won’t. Sorry. That’s not what Cain wants me to do, I won’t do that.”

Aidan’s silent. I don’t look to see what he’s doing. Driving, assumably, since he decides to take one of the exits, he’s done with the highway. I don’t care what’s happened to put us on this particular stretch of pavement, he probably doesn’t either. He plans to keep moving forward.

At least until I start screaming at him to stop. I dive sideways to grab at Aidan's shoulder, his arm, the steering wheel, I’m all over him shouting, “Stop! Stop, Aidan, stop!”

“Ethan!” He shrieks my name with cutting layers of panic and tries to shove me off him. His foot finds the brake pedal, the car skids and then cuts to the side as it drifts.

I hear deep snarling from Cain that announces he’s awake and unhappy with the circumstances. We narrowly avoid catastrophe. The car crunches into a sideways halt on the shoulder, front corner nudged flush into the retaining wall at low enough speed that it’s harmless. A dent in the front bumper maybe.

I burst the door open soon as I can and one of the shopping bags tumbles out with me. I hear Aidan and Cain’s voices overlapping except I’m already running, already gone, flying down the shoulder to get a better look at what I’m pretty sure I just saw.

I’m not exactly certain why my first impulse is to run toward a headless corpse standing in the middle of the highway. I don’t need a dead body -- I don’t need this dead body in particular, but clearly my horror movie survival skills are as bad as Aidan’s because here I am running toward something dead. As I realize just exactly what I’m doing, I start to slow from a run into a jog. When the headless motorcyclist turns toward me holding a flashy red helmet, I stagger to a halt and start screaming.

Under the pallor-cast destruction of the harsh streetlights, the dripping length of blonde braid shines bright. A black curve of face shield works with the red shell to obscure the rest of what that braid’s attached to, but I’m not stupid. I can see the gore-topped stump of a neck sticking out of the motorcyclist’s sleek black jacket.

There’s a good thirty feet or so between me and this dead body. I whirl to put more distance between us and collide into Aidan’s chest. He grabs me, but I am a hysterically-shrieking flail of panic and terror for him to try holding.

The dead thing turned toward me like it saw me, like it knew I was there. I see it shift the helmet under one arm and come closer. I let out a blood-curdling scream that’s so loud and desperate it hurts. I kick Aidan in the shins to get him to let me go and then start running back toward the car.

I run toward Cain, specifically. He’s put on the jeans I bought him and gotten out of the car. He has an angry scowl ready for whatever’s woken him. He’s barefoot, shirtless, it’s too cold for only pants but at least he bothered with pants first. I got the inseam length wrong, I obviously got the size wrong, those jeans don’t really fit him. Somehow, that’s what I think about. Better than thinking about a dead thing trying to find me that isn’t Cain. It's better than thinking about Cain’s arms around me as he catches me, as I literally throw myself at him.  

My fingers shake and curl, I try not to claw scarlet ribbons into Cain’s back as I clutch at him. I huddle my face into his shoulder, his neck, I’m trying to explain around fearful sobs about the dead thing except he cuts me off with a brusque -- “Yeah, yeah. I got you. Quit shrieking.”

I hide against Cain, press and tremble at him, sniffle some, and feel absurdly calmed by the amused annoyance in Cain’s tone. I hear Aidan’s sneakers hit into the pavement as he comes jogging back, and I ease away from Cain. He keeps an arm around me, half-protective and half-possessive. I see he’s mostly half-asleep, actually, now that I’ve calmed down enough to actually take in the moment.

Aidan slows as he approaches and flicks a wide-eyed, wary look from me to Cain to the car. He left the keys in the ignition. The passenger’s side door is hanging open. The way the car’s wedged against the wall must not have left Aidan enough room to open his door. Everything’s positioned now so that Cain’s directly between Aidan and the car, the keys, he’s between Aidan and me. In the river crossing puzzle analogy, I guess that makes me the chicken who just flapped itself off the safety of the boat and straight into the fox’s jaws.

Cain rolls his shoulder, pops his neck, I guess sleeping in the backseat wasn’t that comfortable. His lazy lack of concern is maddening, it’s utterly intoxicating. It’s reassuring that Cain’s sleepy scowl lacks any measure of fear. He’s looking down the stretch of road to where I guess at least he and I can see the headless body standing there holding its head.

No, not standing -- walking. I swallow my own tongue with a moan, get weak-kneed and frantic, I don’t want a headless corpse to walk toward me. Nothing about a headless corpse wanting closer to me is a good thing. Why did I run toward it in the first place? I really am crazy.

Cain rubs his hand over my arm to brisk warmth into me even though I’m in my sweatshirt, I’m not the one between us wearing too little clothing. I'm not shaking because I'm cold; I'm terrified. Cain's mouth stretches with a yawn before he says, “Get in the car, sweetheart. I’ll handle this.”

He says it bold, cocky, sneering at me like he’s half-amused I need his help, half-disgusted he needs to help me. As I stare up at him and smear the back of my hand under the sniffly-wet drip of my nose, I know I have to look pathetic. I know all kinds of desperate, hopeful heartbreak just burst into my expression because I’m chest-crushingly relieved that Cain’s going to help me. He’s that trifecta of believing me, knowing what to do, and then best of all actually being able to do it. If anyone can help with a dead thing, it's Cain.

“Thanks,” I hush. A tremulous smile pulls the corner of my mouth. “Um, sorry I woke you. Um, I bought you other clothes, too, there’s a jacket if you want --”

Cain interrupts by pushing me at the open car door. “It’s fine, sweetheart. I’ll survive. Get in the car.” He snaps his fingers at Aidan. He points at me and orders, “Keep him in the car.”

As Cain hunches his shoulders against the chill and starts marching down the shoulder toward the corpse, Aidan stares after him with an expression of pure disbelief. He obviously can’t believe his good turn of luck that the fox just paddled into the river to drop the chicken back into the boat for him. I have got to stop thinking about that riddle and just look up the solution on my phone.

Suddenly Aidan jolts like someone shook him and then rushes at the car. He pushes at me saying, “Get in the car, get inside--”

I start to protest, “Wait, shouldn’t you --?” but Aidan shoves so insistently that I end up in the car first. I scoot into the driver’s seat. Aidan climbs into the passenger seat and then shuts the door. I scramble around to look out the back windshield at Cain.

The dome lights turn off. Aidan remembers to turn on his hazards, he turns down the music. He joins me in staring out the back. “What’s Cain doing?” he whispers. "What happened?"

“I saw a dead thing,” I whisper back. “He’s going to handle it for me.”

Aidan’s hand rubs between my shoulders. Belatedly, apologetically -- “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Fine. Sorry.” My attention stays glued to where Cain’s just about gotten up close to the motorcyclist. “Sorry. Sorry, Aidan, about --”

As I watch, the motorcyclist comes to a stand-still while Cain keeps moving forward. One hand lifts from holding the helmet. The dead body hails Cain like they’re friends. Cain lifts his hand right back like they are. I guess they might be. Cain was in that body for a while.

Cain gets closer. The hand Cain has lifted abruptly strikes forward like a cobra, he grabs the hand of the dead body. Cain sweeps with his ankles, pulls on that arm he’s grabbed, and the motorcyclist hits the pavement. The flashy red helmet goes rolling, that gold rope of hair flops around, Cain grabs the helmet in both hands and chucks it toward the wall. When the motorcyclist’s body crawls upright, Cain kicks it back down. 

I’m watching Cain fight a dead thing. Cain is fighting a dead thing for me. I can’t fucking believe that Cain’s solution is to fight the dead thing. That's his plan to make it leave me alone.

I turn and grab for the door, but it opens about three inches before hitting the wall. I jerk it closed and instead throw the car into reverse. A half-second too late Aidan reaches to stop me, except I spin the wheel and slam the gas. Metal screeches over cement as the car separates from the wall.

“Sorry!” I gasp. I adjust the wheel, ease off the gas, I’m going much too fast considering this is reverse and what I’m reversing toward is the highway.

“Ethan, stop. Stop, please --” Aidan’s scared to forcibly interfere with my driving, and I’m too focused on the mirrors and Cain to explain what I’m doing. Last thing I want to do is hit Cain with the car.

Cain notices me coming at him and stops what he’s doing, starts coming at me. I stop what I’m doing, too -- I hit the brakes, put the car into park. Aidan snatches the keys out of the ignition, Cain yanks open the car door.

His expression is pure fury, tight brows and scowled snarling mouth. “I told you --”

“I’m in the car!” I flinch deeper into my seat, hold up my hands some to show Cain and Aidan both that I’ll cooperate. “You said to stay in the car! And, well, I’m … I’m in the car.” They’re both just staring at me, almost matched sentiments even if their expressions are different. Neither of them can believe I’m being real right now, that I’m really this dumb.

Cain recovers first. He glances over his shoulder at where that poor dead motorcyclist is trying to find his head. “Fine,” he says. Cain looks back at me. “Scoot over.”

“Wait.” I speak before Aidan can point out he has the keys. I think Aidan might eat the keys to keep them away from Cain. I say quickly, “Wait, wait. Cain -- what did he want? The motorcyclist, what did he want?”

Cain stares at me. “Fuck if I know,” he says. “But I handled it. He’s not gonna bother you.” Since I’m not moving out of the driver’s seat, Cain opens the back door. “Where’s that fucking jacket?”

“I’m driving,” Aidan says. He shakes my shoulder to get my attention, because I’m watching the motorcyclist using the side mirror and ignoring him. “Switch me seats, I’m driving.”

“I’m going to go talk to it. The dead thing -- the motorcyclist, I’ll go talk to him.” My announcement gets me yet another look of frustrated bewilderment from Aidan, and it’s matched by Cain appearing over the back of my seat with a wary growl.

“Fuck that,” he says. “Fuck that loser.”

“It’s probably my fault he’s out here. Um, you know, that he didn’t go into the light or whatever?” I look to Cain. “Can I help him move on? Is that something I can do?”

Cain knows the answer. I can see it in the way he’s frowning at me, the way I’m fully annoying him now and there’s nothing amusing about it. “I thought you didn’t know shit about being a necromancer,” he says.

“I don’t. That’s why I’m asking you.”

Cain rumbles and snarls with more anger than I really think this warrants considering I’m only asking him a question. He doesn't have to answer. There’s real animosity in the way he grits through clenched teeth, “Guess you could.”

“Okay. Then, I want to. I want to do that.” I look to Aidan, because finally I’ve founded something I want to do that Cain didn’t tell me to do first. It’s something that involves dead things but not killing anything. I’m thrilled to have anything I want to do that I actually can do, that I’ll actually get to do something with my new life besides fear it. I think Aidan understands because he smiles, looks immensely relieved. I realize I’m smiling at him, we’re smiling at each other.

Everything’s great until Cain says, “Guess I’ll get Princess Abel’s new best friend,” as he exits the car.

I have no idea what he means by that until I see him chase down the helmet and pick it up by the braid. Numb drips over my face like icy tendrils of water. Some noise chokes in my throat and draws concerned background buzz from Aidan. Cain tucks the helmet under his arm as he strides to the headless motorcyclist’s body. Cain gestures angrily, issues orders I can’t hear. Another terribly frightened and sick-sounding moan escapes me as motorcyclist’s body gets to its feet.

Cain keeps a firm hold on the body’s arm as he stalks back toward the car. He’s bringing the helmet with him. I’m choking on either a scream or vomit as Cain jerks open the back door and shoves this body into the car immediately behind where I’m sitting in the driver’s seat. He casually tosses the helmet into the floorboard.  

I can’t look at the clotted ruin that caps off the corpse’s neck stump, I can’t look at the matching bloodied stump inside the helmet. I don’t want to be intrigued by the jigsaw-piece shatter of white edged vertebrae. I can’t be inside the same car as a headless body, not even one that’s found its head. Everything fades, I slump into the steering column, dimly register that I’m in the middle of fainting. That’s fair enough compromise, I guess, if I have to stay in the car.

 


	15. Chapter 15

The dark of unconsciousness gets broken by sweeping overlays of lights. They pass in bands of iridescent red behind my closed eyelids that grow brighter as I wake further. I hear the steady rolling rumble of the sedan’s engine, but it’s a blurred together moment where I can’t tell if I’ve woken as the car’s stopped or because the car’s stopped. The back-and-forth click punctuated by the tap of fingers against the steering wheel announces Aidan’s waiting for a left turn. It’s a reassuring, normal way to wake up.

I’m stretched almost flat, oddly positioned, my head rolled limp to the side. It’s the passenger seat reclined far as it’ll go, which I confirm as I open my eyes. My face is turned into my hood, I’m facing the door, but as I roll my head to the left I’m stopped. A hand runs across the sweatshirt fabric, my bangs, it settles into place over my eyes like a blindfold.

I allow only the miniscule amount of motion I need to keep breathing, otherwise I stop moving entirely. I want to say the hand belongs to Cain, I want to say I recognize and know even that little of him. That desire takes strange shape alongside the other accumulated wants that fill me at thoughts of Cain.

Fingertips brush a gentle command that my eyes to stay closed before the hand withdraws. I feel pressure lean into the seat on my left, and then I hear Cain’s voice so I know for a fact it’s been him the whole time. “Pull over,” he says. “Stop the car.”

“What? Now?” asks Aidan. He sounds startled, more than anything.

“Yeah,” says Cain. “Find somewhere to park.” He sounds almost bored, kind of tired. He must be exhausted still, and I recall the line of hurt between his brows as he slept. Oh, but I woke him up --

Suddenly I realize what Cain’s strange blindfolding gesture was all about, because I remember about the headless corpse that found its head. I have a sudden new mental image of the car’s interior; Aidan in the driver’s seat, me reclined beside him, Cain seems close enough to be in the awkward middle seat which leaves room for the motorcyclist’s body in the seat behind Aidan. I bet that’s it. I bet I’m in the car with that dead thing.

Cain’s weight drapes into my shoulder, his elbow nudges behind my neck. With my eyes closed he’s hard to place, but he’s near. Close and pressing closer, so I steal glimpses of his arm, the red shirt I bought him. I wonder if he likes the clothes I grabbed. I wonder so much about Cain that it’s distracting, it’s better than thinking about headless corpses.  

“I’m awake,” I decide to say. “I’m okay.” Loud enough for Aidan, too. I’ve pulled up my hood and can press my face into Cain’s arm, the seat. I’m not going to look at the dead thing. I can be calm about this if I don’t have to look at the dead thing.

Cain tenses, soon as I speak.

A voice I don’t recognize says, “Oh, hello!”

I flinch, Cain snarls. I hear him snap, “Shut up.”

“Oh,” sniffs the voice. “You’re still here.” It’s a man’s voice, pleasant and airy. He sounds breezy and casual like a sidewalk cafe, sunshine and macchiatos and not dead.

I press my hands to my ears. It’s the motorcyclist. That’s a dead thing talking. I know without needing to see or anything needing to tell me.

“I’ll put you in the trunk with the rest if you don’t keep your fucking mouth shut, got it?” Cain growls.

Cautiously I let myself take a quick flashing glimpse around at the dim interior of the car. Aidan’s focused on the road, face turned away as he checks traffic. Cain’s leaned forward, but his head’s turned as he talks to the dead thing. Nothing else sitting in the backseat I can see, at least at neck and shoulder level.

I peek my head up further, and Cain notices. We look at each other. A thousand questions burst through me, my lips twitch into a sudden smile, and then I notice a lurid red mark cresting his cheek.

“Are you okay? What happened to your face?” I push to sit up, I get my elbow into the seat and pull away Cain. I want a better look at him, the car, this entire situation. Nothing is as I assumed it was when I had my eyes closed.

Aidan’s still looking left as he waits to turn. Once the approaching car’s headlights crest and fade, he turns his head along with the wheel. Smudged swelling and bruises explain the crimson teardrop of dried blood under his nose. I keep staring as he parks in the empty lot of a grocery store several hours already closed. A few empty cars scatter through the lot like garden weeds. He leaves the engine running. The dome lights come on expectantly even though none of us move to get out of the car.

Aidan avoids looking at me, even as I ask, “What happened?” I decide to look to Cain for answers instead, because I know this is his fault somehow. “What did you do?”

Fury twists over Cain’s expression as he leans back and mutters a rude, too-quiet response. He’s slow, but his dark eyes are bright and alert even though he moves like he’s bleeding somewhere, he’s broken something. I’ve run my gaze over him enough times that I’m certain his physical body is unharmed.

I pull on the seat belt, unbuckle, end up turned around kneeling with my back against the glovebox. There’s a flashy red motorcycle helmet on the floorboard behind Aidan’s seat, but no headless corpse anywhere in sight. Judging by Cain’s earlier threat, it’s in the trunk.

I narrow my eyes at Cain, flatten my mouth, force myself to feel anger rather than concern. “You hit Aidan,” I accuse.

Cain rolls a lazy shrug at me. 

From Aidan I hear a murmured, “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.” Aidan keeps his gaze on the dash, the wheel. His soft-spoken words are impossible for me to understand because this isn’t fine at all.

“What happened?” I demand of Cain. "Tell me."

“We had a disagreement over where your fainted little ass was gonna sit,” Cain snaps. He’s obviously furious that he’s answering me at all, so I don’t know why he bothers. He points down at the helmet. A bit of that blonde braid is visible, a pale-gold ribbon curled against the speckled black floorboard. “Now you still want this guy or am I kicking him out?”

I wonder why Cain didn’t just get rid of the motorcyclist while I was unconscious. Obviously I wouldn’t have objected, just like I couldn’t stop him from hitting Aidan. I can’t believe he hit Aidan. I glare at Cain and fold my arms so I won't be tempted to touch him. “No. I said I’d do this. I’ll do it,” I say. “Let’s do this. I’ll help him.”

Cain mutters something rude under his breath and picks the helmet up from the floorboard. I can’t help but recoil, suddenly scared he’s going to toss it at me. Cain simply sets the helmet into his lap, adjusts it toward me. He leaves the face shield down, which makes me wonder a bit too much about what body-less head looks like.

From the corner of my eye I see Aidan staring. I point at the helmet and ask him, “Do you see this?”

I’m not surprised when he shakes his head, although maybe a little disappointed. At least he can see Cain, and Cain can also see this motorcycle helmet containing the dead thing I’m about to start talking to. I’m not too many degrees of crazy. I swallow and settle my nerves. I can do this.

“Hello,” I say. “You can talk now, um --” I lean forward some to peer at the black sheen of the face shield. I think maybe I can see a face looking back at me and abruptly decide I really don’t want to know. I retreat and feel the hard plastic of the glovebox cut into my back.

“Who are you?” the voice asks. “Do you know where we are?” The voice is pleasant, kind, seemingly unconcerned. It’s as if we’ve met in a coffee line, and he’s asked if I’m next so he’ll know where to stand.

I’m not sure how to respond, so I look at Cain. I’m not sure why I think Cain’s going to be of any use to me, because he keeps a hand on top the red shell of the helmet but otherwise is painfully not in the mood to put up with my questions. He looks ready for another nap. I'm not sure if his eyes are closed or if he's lazing like a tiger, dark lashes low over his gleaming sneer. 

“I have somewhere I need to be,” the voice says. Thin pinpricks of concern dot through the words. “I don’t think it’s here, though.”

Relief sweeps through me. “That’s right,” I say. “You do have somewhere to be that’s not here. You need to move on. Um, go into the light.”

And the voice asks me, “What light?”

I see Cain’s mouth twitch. A chuckle reverberates and builds in his chest before slipping out with a single mocking, “Heh.”

I’m furious with Cain for hitting Aidan still, so it’s easy to glare and scowl at him like he’s always scowling and glaring at me. “If you’re not going to help then don’t say anything,” I hiss.

Sardonic _fuck you_ comes across loud and clear in the way Cain lifts a shoulder at me. This is my dumb idea, he won’t help me. I bet he knows what I should do. He’s been trying to boss me around since the beginning, but for once we’re going to do what I want to do.

I smile at the dark wrap of face shield, hope that I look comforting. I gentle my voice further, make an effort to speak softly. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but you died. You were in a - an accident, riding your motorcycle. I’m very sorry, but you’re dead.”

I reach my hand out to caress the side of the helmet, because I guess I’m crazy enough to feel sorry for this dead thing. My fingertips brush through the hard plastic shell, they go right through that flashy red. I snatch my hand back even before Cain starts to smirk. He’s infuriatingly smug. 

I pull my hand back. I wonder if this means the motorcyclist’s fingers would brush through me as well. I hope that’s the case. I shift to sit more on my side as the voice stays silent, as I hear nothing more from this helmet I see Cain holding.

Finally a floating hum precedes the voice’s polite counter-argument. “That doesn’t seem right.”

He says nothing more. I look to Cain’s cocky grin and wish there wasn’t a dead thing between us, or maybe I should be glad there’s a dead thing between us. I draw in a long breath and then say, “Okay. Well. Let’s pretend that you are dead. Would you have any unfinished business?”

“No, I don’t think so. Maybe that no one would think to water my plant.” He speaks as if I’ve asked after his favorite television show. And then even less concerned -- simply confused, “Do I have a plant?

Cain rolls his head, he seems to bite on his lip. I can’t tell if he’s containing laughter or threatening me. I should be looking at this helmet, I guess, but then from the corner of my eye Aidan’s watching, too. I can’t get it out of my head that when I’m talking to the helmet I’m actually I guess staring at Cain’s crotch, from Aidan’s perspective on things.

The motorcyclist and I are both red, then, we have that in common. I am certain that I’m blushing. I must be embarrassed and blushing to be this much burning. I force myself to look away from Cain, the dead thing, that bruise on Aidan’s face. I look down at my own hands and flex my fingers. 

I can do this, there’s no reason I can’t do this. I take a deep breath, smile, and say, “I don’t know if you have a plant or not. Surely you have more than just a plant to water though, right?”

The voice hums softly, considers the question with all the weight of choosing a latte from the menu. “No,” he says. “I don’t think so. If I were to die, I wouldn’t have any regrets.”

“But… you did die. You’re dead.”

“I am not dead.” This headless motorcyclist sounds like I’ve offended him by pointing out the obvious, painful truth even though I’m trying to be nice about it.

I frown at the helmet. “Yes, you are. You’re dead, I’m sorry, you’re dead and a - a ghost, I guess. So you can’t be here. You need to move on, go into the light or whatever.”

The voice sounds angry now as he says, “I am not dead!”

“You are!” I cannot believe I’m having to convince this spectral head-inside-a-helmet of its own ended mortality. “Just look at yourself, look at you. You’re a decapitated head. You are dead. You died. You -- Cain, hold him up. Can he see me? Make him look around, hold him up to see --” I’m gesturing with my hand, getting frustrated, I’m still furious with Cain for hitting Aidan but I should be nicer to this poor dead thing. I know I should be nicer.

Surprisingly Cain obliges me, he puts his palms to either side of the helmet and lifts it up, waves it around. The braid dangles, I try not to look too closely. I hear the motorcyclist insist again, “I’m not dead.”

I know I should be nicer, but I’m impatient and sound it. I sound like a jerk. “Where’s your body, then? Where’s the rest of you? If you’re not dead, how come you’re just a head?”

“Well, I don’t know, but I’m not dead,” the voice says defensively. “I think I would know if I was dead.”

I wonder if I punched Cain’s smug smirking smile if he’d hit me like he did Aidan. Whichever of them threw the first blow, I’m at least glad that Cain’s got a bruise to show for it. Good on Aidan, hitting back. I wish I’d been conscious for it.

Bemused laughter rumbles softly from Cain as he leans for the door. “Guess that’s that. What can you do, sweetheart? He’s not dead.” He shifts the helmet as if to chuck it from the car.

“Wait,” I say. “Wait. You said I could do this. You said I could help him.”

Some of the amusement slips from his expression, he regards me with a wary, tensed caution. I feel like I’ve pulled a gun on him when Cain grits out, “Yeah.”

He doesn’t elaborate. I have to ask, “How? What do I do?”

Cain cocks his head, his brow, he gives me this exasperated look like I’ve still got that gun on him but he’s noticed it isn’t loaded. “Sweetheart, ever think, if you have to ask then it’s probably a dumbshit thing to be doing? Let’s ditch this guy.”

He tries too hard to sound casual, tries too hard to sound like he’s not exhausted and hurt. I lean back some, sigh, see Aidan’s curious, sympathetic expression and then glance instead at the dashboard. It’s late, past one in the morning, we’re all probably tired and not just Cain. I don’t want to give up on this, though. I want to help this motorcyclist somehow. I want to do something helpful and good with this new life of mine. If I have to be a necromancer, if that’s going to define me, then I want to know what it means.

“I want to do this,” I say to Cain. “Tell me what to do.”

A low, ominous growl accompanies the dangerous gleam of Cain’s eyes as we sit there glaring at each other. He knows the answer, he knows more about this than I do, he knows but doesn’t want to tell me. It’s infuriating, after I did so much to get him here. I have no idea why I worked so hard to get Cain into my living, breathing world if he’s just going to be a jerk about everything.

“Give me your hand,” Cain snaps. His juts between us palm up like I challenge. I slap my hand into his, and he grabs hold. I hear him mutter under his breath, “Fucking idiot.”

It’s like being underwater, it’s like diving deep into the lake, this sudden sweep of cold and numb that flows over me. I suck in a gasp, feel Cain’s hand tighten around mine so I can’t pull away. I try again, pull harder, I know I do even if I can’t see, can’t feel, can’t hear --

Am I still in the car, have I gone somewhere? Am I whimpering with panic or just feel like I want to because I think all I am is these panicked thoughts about what I can’t feel, what I’m not. I don’t think I’m enough for whimpering, I think I’m losing even my thoughts. I’m unraveling, fading, sinking to the bottom of vast empty depths. Pieces of myself break apart, float away, drift into this vacuum of sensation. I’m only the terror of this observation and not enough to stop it or do anything about it.

Pain reaches through first, a pins-and-needles outline that describes to me the unrecognizable shape of my own body. Ache throbs in one particular spot, a part of me that cycles from numb to cold to hot to searing. It’s like a burn in reverse to sketch the shape of my hand, the arm attached to that hand, the rest of me follows until I’m more than just my emotions and thoughts again.

Bursts of here and there nothing take form around me, flashes like a on-and-off light switch. Through the blinking stutter are dark eyes, dark and deeply drawn eyebrows, Cain’s teeth bared in a silent grimace. His glazed expression is distant, focused elsewhere even though it’s aimed at me.

My earlier anger with him is gone entirely in that insignificantly small moment where I’m overwhelmed with relief at seeing Cain, at knowing Cain’s still holding on to me. His hand is clenched around mine, it’s both a sensation I can feel and something I can see. At least until the strobe light flashes settle into the constant shadowed nothing I recognize as the Otherside, and there’s a roughly Cain-shaped shadow holding my hand instead.

 


	16. Chapter 16

I turn my head, flick my gaze, confirm there’s an Aidan-shaped shadow sitting in the equally shadowed driver’s seat and know that if I was breathing I would be screaming. It’s like before, this is the Otherside. From beside me comes a cadence of noise that I know is speech, I know Aidan’s saying something even if all I hear is warbled nonsense.

And then Cain cuts in with a hoarse, “Shut up.” There’s no anger to it, just cranky weariness, but the words are distinct and sharp.

The fact I can hear him, feel him, that should come as a reassurance except he’s a shadow. Before he was the only thing I could see clearly on the Otherside, but now I’m surrounded by a black-and-white world I can’t understand with all this terror filling me. I’m not sure how it’s possible to keep feeling more and more frightened.

“Cain!”

The name flies forward with the same panicked strength as the rest of me, but fire shoots up my arm as Cain bears down on my hand. Only my other arm moves, my folded legs and chest don’t seem mine anymore. I lose where I am to the seat.

Grabbing the smoky, insubstantial shadow of Cain’s arm is impossible, but I snatch frantically anyway. I’ve gone hysteric and know it, I even try to pull my right hand free. The more he strains to keep hold the harder I struggle until I’m clawing and shrieking, gone as impossible for him as he is for me.

“Ethan, stop!”

He snatches at empty air before his free hand connects with my left arm. That same reverse-burn sensation flares where the pressure and resistance of his shadowed flesh finds me, wrangles instead my wrist into his hand.

“Calm down,” he says. He actually sounds reassuring. He’s not snarling or snapping. He’s pleading it at me, soft-toned and desperate, “Abel, calm down.”

I stop fighting him, stop struggling to either free my right hand or grab new places on him with my left. I let him hold on to me instead, reassure myself he won’t let go because of the way he begs me again, “Sweetheart, calm the fuck down.”

I shake with deep, wracking shudders that get smaller and smaller as the panic drains out of me. My voice is horrifically shattered sounding as I say, “Okay.”

I hear Cain sigh. It’s frustrated, weary, lifting into a rueful chuckle. “Okay,” he agrees. He eases his hold on me in slow increments until I don’t flinch each time. He keeps hold of my right hand, pats his other hand over the tight knot he’s made.

His tone changes, the black-on-black outline of his head turns some. I know he’s addressing Aidan when he says blandly, “He’s fine. I got him.”

From Aidan’s intangible shadow is a stream of garbled noise, indistinct and unknowable.

“Yeah,” says Cain. “Sure. Why not?” He snorts, amused and bitter, full-throttle sarcasm that betrays him. I don’t think his answer was the one Aidan wanted, and it sounds like Cain knows that. I’m getting pretty good at recognizing when Cain has the answer but doesn’t want to give it for whatever selfish reason.

“Are you okay?” I’m relieved I don’t sound quite so scared and broken anymore. I certainly feel a lot calmer.

Cain rumbles a low laugh and says, “Yeah. Sure,” in much the same way. I bet Aidan just asked him that. Cain’s voice softens as he says, “You are the worst fucking necromancer.”

I should feel insulted, except I’m not. The weight of Cain’s affectionate tone crushes my chest with incandescent ache. Apology rushes up and lodges in my throat.

Cain speaks first, beats me to it. “Sorry,” he says. Flippant, brisk, too-sharp and not especially sincere, and he follows it up with, “You’re not going to like this next part any better.” It has to be my imagination that Cain seems to squeeze my hand. “Ready?”

“Wait,” I say. “Wait, please.”

He does, to judge by the sudden awkward pause. Awkward for me, because the silence of the Otherside is absolute without Cain’s voice to fill it. I flinch my right hand tighter into Cain’s and hear a soft grunt from him, as if I’ve kicked him. I stop, immediately, almost jerk my hand back except he won’t let go. He’s gripping me tight.

“Is this hurting you?” I ask. “What’s happened? Why am I on the Otherside? What are you doing?”

“Sweetheart.” He speaks through gritted teeth. “Now is not the time for your dumbass fucking questions. Are you ready or not?”

Exasperation shoots through me. I make a small, quiet snarl of my own as I snap, “No! No, I’m not. I’m not ready at all! Cain, please -- I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t even know what I am anymore, much less whatever it is I can do. I can’t be ready if I don’t know what to be ready for. You have to explain this to me.”

Silence follows. Abject silence, painful in how complete it is. A hollow panic blooms somewhere low and rises through me. I’d be breathless, if I was breathing.

At last Cain grumbles something harsh and foreign. “Fine,” he says, louder. “Fine, princess. Think of it like I’ve got one door open, you’ve got the other, and we’re about to toss this hapless shithead through. The door hurts like a motherfucker to keep open, so I need you to shut up and be ready. Does that make enough fucking sense, or do I need to draw you a goddamn picture?”

I bring my lips between my teeth, feel at the scar with my tongue. “Yes, it does. I understand. Tell me what to do. Please,” I add. “I can be ready, but I have to know what to do.”

“Just be you, sweetheart.” He tries to sound snarky but comes across as sincere. I feel a pause in the air like he wants to say something more, hear him sigh in defeat as if he was struggling not to say anything else. It’s gritted teeth snarling as he adds, “Don’t let go of me. I’m not chasing your ass down if you do. This one’s too fresh and stupid to struggle, but if he tries to keep hold of you then, well.”

I wait, but Cain doesn’t elaborate. Tentatively I prompt him with a soft, “Yeah?”

“Then I’ll have to find me another necromancer. One that’s not so fucking stupid, maybe.” All these snarled things aren’t what he really wanted to say, I bet. He was going to say something else. He sticks out his left hand expectantly.

“I’m ready,” I say quietly. If this is hurting Cain then I don’t want to delay any longer. I want back in my bright complicated world rather than the shadowed sterile nothing of the Otherside. I set my left hand into his.

Our right hands clench together, Cain’s blunt-edged nails biting in with a sting. He guides my left hand toward his lap -- that helmet, I can almost feel the hard plastic shell. Yes, I can, my fingertips brush into something solid, Cain presses my palm into the rounded curve.

A brisk, chipper voice speaks up with a soft-startled, “Oh! Hello, again.” I get a brief glimpse of big, soft eyes and a smile, a droopily sweet expression, a strange insight into everything this motorcyclist once was as a person. I see a bedroom with sunshine streaming in from gauzy curtains, feel satin sheets with a stretch, know these aren’t my memories but get lost in them anyway.

I roll my head on the pillow, look to the window, think about a mother and father, a best friend, a lover, errands I’m going to run that day, pleasant dreams and expectations. I get out of bed, find myself dressed and in a kitchen filled with light and color. Plants crowd the window ledge, beautiful bursting blooms and tumbling green leaves.

Details pop everywhere, like a familiar goofy souvenir magnet holding a pizza menu to the fridge, or the wafting smell of the incense from my nextdoor neighbors. Comforting, domestic familiarity overwhelms and excited me for the day. I snag keys off a hook near the door, pick up a flashy red helmet, lock up my apartment and hum to myself because it’s my last day alive and I don’t even know it.

I don’t even know I’m dead. I couldn’t be dead. I don’t remember dying, after all, I remember all these things about being alive. I know all these wonderful lovely things, like the invigorating first sip of hot coffee on a chill Sunday morning, or the damp cool touch of fresh-sweated dark skin on a lover. How can I be dead? I’m meeting someone for lunch, I’m running late as usual. My lover is waiting, and we’ll laugh about it when I get there. I’m all these living memories, I’m something still thinking about being alive.

Something painful knows a terrible dark truth, though. It knows obliterating nanoseconds that contain miniscule molecular destruction -- the breaking silence of synapses firing their last chemical glory. Bursts of adrenaline, dopamine, and serotonin form that last conscious moment. Muscle fibers flex and bones shatter, it’s a cellular infinity of ruin that knows this singular absolute truth of nonexistence.

I won’t deny this harsh awful truth, but it’s not mine. My truth is the searing numb hold of Cain’s hand in mine to know what is me, what I am. I’m not the one who has to let go and be dead. I am not on a motorcycle, nor am I meeting my lover for lunch. I am not a soft-spoken young man fond of orchids and moonlight who loved life so much and doesn’t want to be dead.

That’s someone else, that’s not me. I don’t even know his name, but I know everything else, his first and last kiss, secret moments alone wondering and wanting. I knew his final shocked denial absent of fear, the memory full of endorphins and dopamine to make everything pleasant, even to the gruesome end.

It’s an overwhelming amount of information, an utter confusion where the line between his life and mine threatens to blur again. I didn’t die, I’m not the one dead even though I have memories of torn-apart moments full of agony and suffering. I have violent memories of slipping on a boat deck, swerving on my bike into a car. My life, painful and real, I won’t let it go and can’t, it’s all here inside me amid this invasion of foreign memory.

A pulling sensation redefines my arm, my entire body, my existence -- who I am, not just my name but whole collective consciousness of memory that forms the tapestry of my life. The distinct perspective of what’s impossible to share completely, the continuous stream of thought that’s mine and mine alone, this entirety of what makes me separate and distinct, a thing that is and does. This me that I am, I keep hold of Cain’s hand for the blistering return to my beautiful living world.

An impossibility of everything consumes me at how abrupt the transition is. My lungs snatch and spasm for breath, and I try not to panic that it needs to be forced. I have to find and set a rhythm that should be natural.

I hear Aidan’s matched gasp, feel the tightened squeeze from Cain -- I see him, we’re still faced off across the interior of the parked car. It looks like a monster’s clawed our joined hands, put long red ribbons into Cain’s arm.

Horror fills me, a fresh-certain dark truth I have to confirm. I lift my left hand up, see blood smeared on my fingers and ripped skin collected into thick crescents under my nails. I can feel the fullness, bitterness rushes into my mouth. I’m the monster. I’ve done this to Cain.

I think Aidan’s saying something, it’s not precisely the distorted nonsense I heard on the Otherside, but I can’t understand him all the same. I can barely hear him over my own choked sobs, the shuddering hard slam of my frantic heartbeat. He’s probably asking if I’m okay, or exclaiming over how I’m clearly not and neither is Cain.

Cain still has my hand, or I still have his. I don’t want to let go of the only thing that feels truly mine. The hard-squeezing pressure and bruising grind of small bones, I’d let Cain crush my hand entirely just for the reminder of what I am, who I am, where I am. I need something solid and real. I want the burning sear of his flesh

I throw myself forward. Our mouths fit together with hungry desperation. He bites at me, I bite at him, we’re attacking each other even as he cradles my hands in both his as if this is going to be gentle. I push my knees to either side of Cain in the seat and spread my thighs over his lap, fit against him close.

The collar on my sweatshirt cuts into my neck as I get yanked back from Cain. Aidan’s frantic, “Get off him!” is sharply distinct. He gets a second fistful of fabric and tugs, grabs at my arm.   

I squirm and twist to knock Aidan off me. “S’fine!” Tears blur my vision, sobs still choke my voice. “Go - go away! Go away!” I slap at Aidan’s hand.

Aidan gives up on trying to haul me off Cain and pleads with his big puppy-dog brown eyes instead. “He’s bleeding. You disappeared --”

“Go away!” I scream at him. “Get out of the car! Go!”

I can’t believe I’m doing this, but I am. This terrifying depth of want within me that I possess for Cain, it’s filled and overflowing. I’m going to drown in the flood, all this cold numb impossible that fills me with desperation and need is going to win. I know I’m being beyond crazy, but I also know I’m going to fuck Cain right now in this parking lot and if Aidan doesn’t leave then this is happening right in front of him.

I’m half-turned toward Aidan but still straddled across Cain’s lap. I have my left arm around Cain’s shoulders to keep him pulled against me, half-protective and half-possessive. I’m so totally crazy right now and know it, even without seeing Aidan’s expression mirroring the truth back at me.

This isn’t the face he makes when he’s pitying his crazy best friend. No, right now Aidan’s realizing I’m a monster like Cain. He’s a demon, I’m a necromancer, together we’ve manage to kill the boy thirteen-year-old me could have grown up to be. He’s only memory, dead as that orchid-adoring motorcyclist. I’ve killed Aidan’s best friend.

Aidan fumbles a hand into the console for his phone. The engine’s running, the keys are in the ignition. He pulls on the handle but doesn’t open the door. He stays turned around staring at me. It’s officially the most scared I’ve ever seen him. He knows he won’t see me again if he gets out of the car.

“Wait,” I say. “I’m sorry. Wait --” 

Cain’s draped heavy on my shoulder, his lazy lean more woozy than seductive. His arm is slung limp around my waist, one rests heavy on my thigh. His hot, ragged breaths fall over the smallest hairs on my neck. 

“Sweetheart,” Cain slurs. “Don’t stop.” 

I might be a necromancer, totally crazy and full of lust for this demon, I might be all that but I can also be calm. I should stop crying at least. I don’t want to have sex while crying. I need to be calm about this at least. 

“Wait,” I say softly. Now I truly do sound calm. “Wait, stay. I’m sorry.”

Aidan opens and then shuts the door to reset the latch. The dome lights pop on to be helpful, but all they do is expose the horror of the moment. I shudder in a fresh sob to help clear the rest and remember only with brief, peripheral crimson flash not to wipe my face with my hand. Collared bruising denotes Cain’s strong grip, but the blood is his. It’s his skin under my nails. 

“Cain, you’re hurt.” 

A sandpaper snarl forms his reply. “Yeah. No shit.” 

He stirs with a stuttering jolt that’s punctuated by a laugh. Mocking me invigorates him enough to push out of that slow-melting lean. He’s on the verge of collapse -- I reach without thinking to steady him, my hands snatching like to catch a teetering porcelain vase. 

Cain’s gaze slips out of focus but then sharpens as he rallies with a sneering look of disgust. “You are the worst fucking necromancer,” he declares. He bites each word distinctly. He keeps a glare locked on me until his dark-gleaming eyes roll back, he slides forward. I have all of Cain’s dead weight to hold. 

I have this hurt, unconscious demon now and a wide-eyed best friend. I don’t know what to do except start laughing. I keep at it until Aidan joins in, nervous at first and then giggling. We start howling, it’s the best fucking joke either of us has heard. Too bad it’s going to be painfully awkward when the joke’s run its course, and we have to figure out what to do next.

 


	17. Chapter 17

Briefly in the second grade I wanted to be a firefighter. I forget what sparked the obsession, but it proved all-consuming to my small seven-year-old self. My mother, in all her viciously affectionate ways, orchestrated a field trip to the fire station for my entire second grade class. We toured their kitchen, the dorms, they let us sit in the truck. I had my picture taken with one of the firefighters, I stuck it on my bathroom mirror along with favorite drawings and other childish things.  

The unknown man in the picture was this tousle-haired hunk that thirteen-year-old-me finally took down, threw the picture away in shame after rubbing one out thinking of him. No idea who he was then, who he might be now, he was just a body to hold my unknown desires. I actually don’t even remember the trip to the fire station. It’s just the photo and the story, everyone else telling me I was there. When I think of that day, I can imagine all the things that must have happened even if I don’t remember them. It’s like the day on the boat, how everyone says I wasn’t breathing but I don’t remember that, I wasn’t there to see it. I didn’t live that moment, just my body was there.

I’m not sure why I’m thinking all this as I sit shivering in Aidan’s car. I guess I’m thinking about that firefighter, the strangeness of memory and my own existence, what makes something alive and what it means to be dead -- I’m thinking all this to keep from thinking about Cain, because if I think about Cain I’m going crawl into the backseat and flatten myself over him, throw myself on him, rub all over him because I’m completely and totally insane.

I want to fuck a demon, this demon, I want Cain so desperately that I’m sitting here in the front seat of Aidan’s car clutching my knees and shaking. Maybe I’m doing that and thinking all this about memory and desire and want -- I’m doing it to cope with the fact I just obliterated a dead thing into something more gone than dead. I rendered that motorcyclist into total nonexistence.

He’s nothing but memory now, he’s in other people’s thoughts -- mine -- he’s become a body for someone to remember -- me, his friends, family, lover, bystanders, the truck driver, the people on internet gore forums and the eventual news reports. He’s a body, a collection of moments, a thing for others to remember being alive or maybe dead, too, just his body being dead. He’ll slowly fade and be forgotten, turn into memories that become only stories, pictured thoughts that seem so real even though they’re not.

I don’t know what I looked like that summer day, lying there unbreathing on the boat. I don’t remember seeing the crystalline sky dotted with fluffy white like I picture in my head. I remember earlier in that day, I remember lots of things about that day, but how much is what I just think I remember, and how much is really me? Who I am, what makes me -- _me_? Am I only this body, these frantic-running thoughts in my head?

Aidan’s been saying my name for so long in so many different tones and ways that I’m not even sure it’s mine anymore. I have no idea who I am, what is means to be alive or dead, what anything is besides this exact shivering moment where I’m a panting, shaking, numb-staring mess scaring the hell out of my best friend.  

He’s lucky I’m not screaming. He should shut up and be happy I’m not all over Cain. I could bolt out of this car. I could climb in the backseat and stroke that hurt line on Cain’s forehead until he wakes up. I could kiss him until he wakes up, call his name, beg and plead or just let him sleep.

I should do something, if not those things, I should do _something_ besides terrify Aidan. I should say something, at least.

“I don’t know.” The words hush as dry ache over my scarred lips.

Aidan goes silent, gets to staring.

“I don’t know.” Like saying it a second time will make it sound less desolate. I’m not trying to deflect, not trying to dodge the question, I’d just lie if that was the case. “I don’t know if I’m okay. I don’t think I am, but I don’t know.”

“Oh.” Aidan’s startled I’ve spoken, taken aback by what I’ve said and how I’ve said it. I don’t blame him.

“I don’t think anything’s okay anymore. I think I’d rather have died. I wish I was the boy who went into the water and wasn’t pulled out in time, wasn’t pulled out at all. I wish I’d never started breathing again. I should have stayed a dead body that day.” Honestly it’s astounding this hollow rasp belongs to me at all, that it’s my voice even capable of saying something so calmly bleak and terrible. “I wish I was dead.”

“Fuck that.”

The leather upholstery squeaks, blankets shift -- Cain’s hand grips into the back of my seat, he half-collapses over the console. He’s smearing blood everywhere, all over Aidan’s car, it’s going to look like a murder scene in here.

“Being dead sucks.” He sounds exhausted. He should sound exhausted, he was just unconscious a moment ago. I can’t believe he’s awake.

I’ve plastered myself up against the glove box, the window, I’m terrified to touch Cain or let him touch me because I know I won’t stop. A single brush of our skin, I don't know what I might do. My fingers dig into the hard plastic of the dash as I stare at him, elated and horrified in turns.

Aidan chokes on something. A word, his tongue, total panic, I don’t know. Then he asks, “Are you okay?” and actually sounds like he wants to know.

I remember the warbled nothing of his voice asking from the Otherside, and I know exactly how Cain’s going to answer. I’m not sure why Aidan bothered to ask. Cain’s obviously not okay.

“Yeah, sure," he says. "Why not?" Cain's blood-streaked forearm slips off the leather as he tries to stay leaned forward into the seats. The ragged cuts over his skin don’t seem real, can’t really still be there to remind me what a monster I am. It’s impossible my nails did such a thing, raked those raw jagged lines into Cain. It looks like I took a knife to him, like my pale curving nails became wicked sharp claws.

That line between his brow is obliterated into a woozy deep frown. He’s trying to hold an angry scowl together like that’ll help him with the rest. His dark gleaming gaze can’t hold mine for long, but he tries anyway. “Where are we?”

“I don’t know. Parking lot. Same place we were.”

Each breath seems to hurt him, speaking seems to hurt worse to judge by the way he clenches his fist and jaw both. “Why?”

“I don’t know.” I’m sorry to answer like this, but I’m soft-spoken and quick with my responses at least.

Cain struggles to respond, but I can’t tell anymore if it’s teeth-gritted impatience or agony-driven torment that keeps him silent. His gaze is glassy, mirrored, slurred same as his voice. Everything about him seems out of focus, fragile, I’m scared if I try to touch him my hand might go right through, that he won’t even be real anymore.

“Where -- nng.” He sways and fumbles, grips for the seat and then slumps heavily into the console instead. “Where’re you --” This barely-conscious demon snarls and groans, tries to push to even his elbows and can’t. He can’t even finish his question. He sprawls there and pants like he’s catching his breath, like he’s a dog basking in the hot sun or a weary runner at the end of a marathon.  

Aidan’s barely blinking, hardly breathing, gripping a white-knuckled terror into the steering wheel. His gaze cuts from Cain to me. I see all the hollow-voiced desolate things I was saying stamped over his face. I’m not sure if I explained the depth of my existential crisis or what I did to the motorcyclist if it would help Aidan understand what’s wrong with me.

I ease into my seat, let myself get closer to Cain. I glance up at Aidan. I don’t want to forget he’s in the car when I touch Cain, when I let myself glide my fingers through his hair. Tentative, scared I’ll wisp through him, but he’s shiver-inducing solid. He feels so warm, even just his hair like this feels heated to touch.

“You’re hurt,” I say softly.

Hoarse, ragged coughs shake out of Cain. I think he’s trying to laugh in my face, although all he’s managing is a sick, weary moan into the cup holder. His eyes are closed, but I know he’s still conscious because of his struggled breathing and stubborn scowl..

I brush my fingers over that pain-driven tight line between his brows, and it has to be my imagination that he seems to breathe easier, suffer less. It can’t be as simple as soothing away Cain’s pain with my touch, but that’s what I try to do. I don’t know what else to do except try to comfort this wounded, weary demon. I’m sure my expression is all kinds of hurt-puppy sympathy, and when I glance up at Aidan again he confirms it. His round-eyed stare tells me just how desperately pathetic I look, sitting here petting at Cain.  

I’m not sure if I explained about the firefighter if that would help him understand what’s wrong with me. I could try to explain about what happened on the Otherside, how Cain’s already fucked me once so Aidan shouldn’t look so terrified about how I want it to happen again. I could maybe explain about that awkward not-crush I tried so hard not to have on Aidan. I could remind him of when we kissed, when Cain made me kiss him, and how I told him I was like this. I warned him.

It’s not worth trying to remind Aidan he should have cut me loose hours ago, days ago. I look down at Cain, brush aside his bangs and keep at it, keep touching him like I never want to stop because I don’t. He doesn’t make any effort to move, even though it must be uncomfortable. He’s slung himself into this doubled-over drape between the front seats, when I had him situated as comfortably as I could manage in the back.

“You should lie down again,” I tell him. Whisper it, even though I know he’s still conscious.

The snarled groan I get in reply is a pretty clear refusal. It might have been an effort at telling me to fuck off, or maybe trying to tell me yet again how bad I am at being whatever it is I am. I’m as much a disappointment to Cain as anyone.

I sigh and scratch gently at his scalp. I try not to think about the russet-smeared stains on my hands or the collected skin under my nails, I try desperately not to think about how Cain’s hurt like this because of me.

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

"Heh." Cain’s head shifts, his eyes stir beneath his closed lids. He can’t even manage to get his head off the console, much less keep his eyes open for more than one long, bleary blink. He’s just barely able to mock me with that single dry chuckle that took him too long, took too much effort. There’s an answer here somewhere, I know Cain has the answer.

A sigh slips from me, passes into the smooth motion of my fingers through Cain’s hair. I shouldn’t bother him with a bunch of questions. I glance at the clock, look to Aidan. “It’s late.”

His hands tense, the hard plastic of the steering wheel creaks. “I can drive.”

He doesn’t even let me get the suggestion out. Either I’m that obvious in what I’m thinking, or it’s that obvious of a need that Aidan knows I have to be thinking it.

“Not forever. Let’s find somewhere. A hotel,” I say.

Aidan goes three shades whiter, his eyes flick to where I’m caressing Cain. “No, that’s okay. I can drive. I’ll just -- drive, somewhere.” He shifts the car into gear, glances at me and then keeps his gaze there with an impatient air.

I don’t reach for my seatbelt. I keep caressing Cain as if he were a stiff-still lump of soft black fur in my lap. “I want to wash my hands. I want a shower,” I tell Aidan. “And Cain’s hurt, he needs rest. Come on, let’s just stop for the night.”

Aidan sets his jaw, his shoulders. Stubborn determination drives harshness into the way he says, “No, buckle up. I’m driving.”

I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him look this serious about something, except maybe when telling me not to kill myself. I shift my gaze out the passenger window as if the empty parking spot next to us holds anything of interest. “You’ve been driving all day.”

“It’s fine. I’m not tired,” he says. “I haven’t even been up a full twenty-four hours yet.”

“Well, I’m tired. I want to stop.”

“No, we’re going. Put on your seatbelt.”

I’m not sure Aidan’s ever spoken to me this way. I’m not sure I’ve ever heard him speak to anyone this way. I remember the first day we met, that Saturday our mothers dumped us on each other so they could go play bridge. His mom had to tell me his name, he was too shy to even get through introductions. He looked half-terrified of me, I thought he was going to cry when our moms left, I can’t believe I’m getting bossed around like this by timid, awkward Aidan.

I don’t know what’s going to happen if we keep fighting about this. We never fight. This is weirder than our argument over killing a cat, although maybe it’s just the same argument after all. Aidan doesn’t want me near Cain, certainly doesn’t want to put Cain and I in the same room as a bed. He’s having a hard enough time keeping me off Cain with the seat division to help his efforts.

Cain’s come crawling over this console just to be near me because there’s no way I’m wrong about this. The more I put my hands over Cain, the more I sit here caressing smooth that pained little wrinkle and he lets me, the more I know it’s working. I don’t have to ask Cain what he needs -- he already told me. A hot shower, a bed -- me in that bed with him. He was on the verge of collapse, saying _sweetheart don’t stop_ when I was all over him. I can’t be wrong about this. I know how to help Cain.

“Please, Aidan.” I’m shameless enough to beg, desperate enough to plead.

“No,” he says. Snapping and stern, but he's not angry I guess. He sounds like a stranger. I don't even recognize the bossy-firm insistence as his. “Put on your seatbelt.”

I ignore him. In the slanted reflection of the window I see him lean toward me. He stops, glances down at the ragged-breath interruption between us that is Cain. After a moment we roll forward even though I’m not buckled. Apparently me smashing through the front windshield in the event of a wreck is less concerning to Aidan than getting the car into motion.

I’m not sure why he thinks that’s going to help him. If anything he’s made his situation worse, because now he needs to stop the car if he wants to stop me. I’m not sure what I’m going to do that he’ll need to stop. More of the same expecting different results, I guess, which I think might be a textbook definition of insanity.

“Please,” I say. I try to sound firm, not angry either, because I don’t want to fight with Aidan. “Just for a few hours. I want to shower, and Cain needs to sleep somewhere that isn’t the inside of a car.”

“S’fine, sweetheart.” Mostly slur and snarl, but he’s distinct and sharp enough I know what he’s trying to say. Cain shudders closer, nudges under my hand, he might have been trying to do something else but that’s what he does. He gets closer to me, that's his answer for how I can help. 

“Aidan, _please_. I won’t…”

He slides a sideways glance at me for the way the assurance fades into nothing. I can’t promise him that I won’t do anything with Cain. I don’t know what I might do anymore. I slashed Cain’s arms into ribbons without meaning to, I’ve started to cry without meaning to, I keep telling Aidan how much I hate everything about my life when he’s trying so hard to keep whatever part of me he still gets to have in his life. I really am the worst.

I should stop crying. I don’t want to win this not-fight I’m having with Aidan by crying. That’s a pathetic way to win a fight, it’s a monstrous way to do it, I’m a monster for sitting here sobbing just because my best friend won’t let me fuck a demon. My life is so pathetic. I hate it so much. I’m all these mean, vicious thoughts about how much I hate being alive when I realize I'm about to die.

I’m faced toward the window, head turned aside like maybe it won’t be obvious I’ve started to cry. It’s this strange breathless moment, all my hair standing on end, when I see the fast-growing headlights. Either my half-shrieked gasp is enough to warn Aidan or he’s paying close attention, but the sedan’s rumble veers into a roar as we race forward.

That’s just like Aidan, he wouldn’t think to hit the brakes, he’s got the green light and it’s the other car blatantly running the red. We were already in the intersection, he’s reacting under the pressure of being caught in the crosshairs. Maybe he did think about it, maybe he was quick-thinking enough to put the physics of all this together, to realize his odds are better if he goes faster. He’s such a smart kid, a loyal and true friend, he stayed up thirty-six hours straight once to defeat back-to-back finals, he hit that home run, he’s fucking amazing. If we live through this I’ll tell him I’m sorry, I’ll try to explain about the firefighter and that not-crush at thirteen and --

Here’s my life flashing in front of my eyes, all these memories of Aidan because I’m so fucking sorry the last thing we did together is have the worst, weirdest, most terrible fight we’ve ever had as friends. We’re going to get t-boned by this red light-running car, it’s coming right at us, I definitely don’t want to die, I don’t want this to be over, I don’t want to become something that only remembers what it’s like to be alive.

This is it, this is the moment, it’s lasting forever so it has to be my last one. My fingers clench into the heated dark warmth of Cain’s hair. I’m not ready for the shrieking clash of metal and glass, not ready at all for an explosion of sideways-streaking motion. I’m not ready for this to be the end, but it is.


	18. Chapter 18

Red. Blood red, these streaks and smears of blood bright in bleary black nothing. Shadows over shadows with all this bright red, motion and movement in ways that are strange. Wavering awareness brings unpleasant sensations, stabbing reminders of something tangible, something important.

A rolling motion glides a here and there glimmer, a sudden change in perspective. Unfocused, bright by comparison even though it’s still dark, still mostly shadow, disorienting and implacably familiar. Sounds now, trickling through a fogged-over, muffled awareness. More motion, blinking, everything gaining better focus as the lurid red glow fades, harsh yellow-tinged streetlights provide contrast to the darkness.

More sounds, louder, everything rushing together because I remember fast-growing headlights, impending doom, this is the aftermath of the wreck. I’m something enough to be thinking, slowly becoming more as I keep at it. I’m starting to feel terror. I feel so many things in the moment I realize that I don’t feel my body, that I don’t think I can move. I’m in this moment, I’m thinking about it, I’m here watching it happen and listening --

_Cain?_

A blur of fast motion, too fast for me to follow just what exactly is in the confusion of space. The soft darkness of closed eyes follows. Vibration forms a groaned protest. It’s not quite an answer. It’s all the answer I need.

_Cain? Cain, open your eyes._

Lidded oblivion parts to reveal the sideways shadows of the backseat. I can hear Cain’s panted breath, the steady-ticking protest of the sedan’s turn signal or maybe the hazards, it’s hard to understand just what I’m looking at, where I am, or rather -- what Cain is looking at, where Cain is. I can’t be wrong about this.

I have to stay calm, even though I want to panic. I am so frightened, so beyond terrified, I try not to think about it but I’m nothing except thoughts and feelings, I can’t do anything besides think and feel.

_Cain, are you okay? Can you get up?_

His eyes close amid a low tight growl, this terrible sound of agony and frustration.

_Okay. Sorry. No questions. I’m just -- scared. I’m really scared. Cain, I’m not in my body. I’m in yours._

He snarls some, his head shifts so the perspective changes. He looks around slower, blinks, things waver in and out of focus. I get a brief glimpse of his feet, his legs, I think Cain’s okay. The interior of the car is this blown-apart mess of wrong angles and broken glass. Cain’s behind the driver’s seat mostly, he’s this strange upside-down sprawled mess of limbs but I think he’s okay-ish. Not significantly worse off than he was before the wreck, at least. I don’t think he’s broken anything, I don’t see fresh blood anywhere just those same deep cuts I gave him.

Something’s happening outside the car, there’s a cadence of voices and urgency. The inside of the car is just that ominous back-and-forth click, the harsh ragged sound of Cain breathing hard, the engine idling. Maybe it’s because I’m only thoughts and feelings, but I have the sudden understanding that everything is terribly wrong.

_Cain, get up. You have to get up._

Blunt-edged nails claw at the leather upholstery as Cain struggles to sort out the tangle. His legs flop off the seat as he gets upright, it’s incredibly confusing to watch Cain’s body move like this. I’m suddenly grateful to have experienced Cain controlling my body, just so I can feel this calm about being stuck inside Cain’s body.

I’m not in the front seat. That’s immediately obvious, soon as Cain gets to where he see the front half of the car. I feel this dizzy sense of relief, I become nothing but how relieved I am that my dead broken body isn’t taking up space in the front seat. The windshield is cracked but not shattered, unlike the back, and I hope I don’t need to make Cain crawl out of the car to see if my dead body was thrown clear of the wreck. I’m just not there, but Aidan is, he’s slumped unconscious and bleeding in the driver’s seat, half-draped over the wheel.

_Oh, the engine -- Cain, turn off the car!_

Cain lurches forward and grabs the steering wheel to keep his balance. He scrambles his fingers for the keys. He yanks them from the ignition and then flicks his gaze to the window. I want him to look at Aidan, I’m about to tell him to make sure Aidan’s okay, but then I realize just why Cain’s suddenly staring at the dark glass. Someone’s staring back at him.

Face stark white in the gleaming night and nearly hidden behind a sweep of black silk, it’s Deimos staring back at Cain. His gaze is sharp like a knife. Fear cuts me with cold certainty.   

_Get out. Cain, now -- out the back windshield, go!_

Cain shoves off from the wheel, the console, he throws his hand against Aidan’s back as he struggles to push his body into motion. I think Aidan’s okay, I’m pretty sure he’s alive, there’s going to be ambulances and police soon. Someone’s going to call in this wreck. My safe complicated world will save Aidan, but Cain needs to save himself.

Light floods the car as Deimos yanks open the driver’s side door. It’s kind of pathetic the dome lights still work. I nearly warn Cain not to cut himself on the broken glass as he wedges through the busted back windshield, but I don’t want to distract him. It’s hard just to stay calm like this, but I have to stay calm.

Aidan nearly made it, to judge by where the car’s crumpled and smashed. I bet he would have made it, too, if the other car hadn't been gunning for us. We’ve been slung through the intersection, spun into facing the way we came. The collision happened on the corner, square over the rear tires, I’m trying to take in this whole scene at once for Cain just as fast as I can. It’s strange to use his eyes like this, stranger than being a passenger inside my own body, but I try not to think about it. I need to focus on what I’m doing, so I can get Cain out of this mess.  

The headlights I saw belong to a hulking SUV, this sleek black monstrosity with a grille guard and dark-tinted windows. It’s cockeyed up on the sidewalk, taillights flashing as starts to reverse. The two front windows are down despite the cold weather, and from the pitch and timbre I know it’s Phobos shouting at Deimos. It’s mostly Cain’s tormented breathing that I hear, I think maybe I can even hear his hard-pounding heart.

_Where’s Deimos? Look for him, quickly._

I get an answering whirl of perspective until Cain finds him, close and coming closer now that Cain’s out of the car. That’s okay, I have more options now, I couldn’t let Cain stay trapped in the car. I don’t think Cain is armed, I certainly didn’t give him any weapons, I can’t think of anything within arm’s reach he can use either.

Deimos has a knife, of course he has a knife, it’s this silvery blade that catches the glaring streetlights and softens their harsh brightness into a moonlit glow. I’m sure it’s not a normal knife, I’m positive I can’t let him get anywhere near Cain with it.  

_Cain, you need to do something. You can’t let Deimos catch you. Can you run?_

Cain rises from his crouched stance. He shouts something -- a short collection of sounds, perhaps in a language I don’t even recognize, it’s bewildering not to understand the single-word shout. Deimos’ eyes widen, he takes a step back even though he’s got a knife and Cain’s wavering, bloodied, exhausted -- he must look more intimidating on the outside. From in here, I’m desperately terrified that Cain might collapse and not get back up again. I can feel the way he’s trembling.

This time when Cain shouts I understand him perfectly, even though it’s all slurred snarl and growling, gritted teeth. “Miss me?”

Deimos hasn’t moved, I’m not sure he can, his blown-open stare is one of complete shock, total fear. He recognizes Cain, that’s immediately obvious, but it’s more than that. It’s whatever Cain said first that I couldn’t understand, that strange foreign-sounding something, and I can’t even remember how it sounded. Couldn’t take a guess at a single syllable it contains, a solitary letter that shapes it.

Cain’s boots beat into the twisted metal as he gets on top of the car, balances himself on the roof like a colossus. I have no idea what he’s doing, but I’m not about to stop him. Deimos scurries back with a quick-startled reaction, I think he’s genuinely frightened of Cain now. He doesn’t seem nearly so intimidating, looking like this, even with the knife held at his side. Deimos seems rather small, a little trembling thing staring up at big snarling monster.

I can feel Cain’s mouth spread in a fearsome, mocking smile. “My necromancer’s not here right now, but good try with the hit-and-run.”

Cain glances briefly from Deimos to the SUV, this black mechanical beast curving into position behind the demon hunter’s slight frame. It’s Phobos at the wheel, his petite and pretty runway model look ridiculous compared to the size and style of the vehicle. He’s wide-eyed as well, though not nearly as frightened as Deimos. He doesn’t seem frightened at all, actually, he looks excited and eager, almost grinning with glee.

“Deimos!” he calls. “Time’s up! Gotta go!”

Deimos jerks back another step, feet shuffling like there’s something sticky keeping him in place. Headlights sweep onto the street in the near distance, the first bystanders about to arrive on scene. My complicated world is coming to rescue Aidan.

Cain cocks his head to the side. His fist clenches, his jaw tightens. It’s hurting him, but he forces the words to sound distinct rather than slurred. “How’d you end up with a fairy like that, kiddo? Bet it’s an interesting story. Too bad this reunion’s getting cut short.”

“Killed you.” It’s a whispered rasp, a pleaded denial. Deimos flails a hand behind him for the car door without taking his eyes off Cain.

All Cain’s inner torment comes out in his laugh. It’s this terribly raw and hoarse clatter of morbid amusement. “You sure about that?”

Deimos doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to, his terrified expression says it all. He gets a foot up on the running board, swings open the door. His getaway driver’s already hit the gas, even though Deimos is half-hanging from the vehicle. He’s got hold of the grab handle, either can’t or won’t take his eyes off Cain. I know that feeling too well.  

Only once the SUV’s clear of the intersection and making a fast escape do I see Deimos shift into the seat. The door closes, and Cain watches the taillights from atop Aidan’s ruined car. His head turns to check out the approaching headlights. These poor bystanders can probably see Cain, he must be pretty obvious standing on top of the car like he is.

_You need to leave._

A shudder runs through Cain. I’m reminded of a dog shaking wet from its fur. He shudders again and then slumps to his knees. He slides across the warped metal, tumbles off the car and to the pavement in a barely-controlled fall. Breathing becomes choking as he coughs.

_I’m sorry. I’m sorry, but you have to go. Cain, get up. You need to run. You can't stay here._

He struggles and pushes. That approaching car is getting louder, brighter. Cain doesn’t have any form of identification, he doesn’t have a real name to give, I’m sure he doesn’t have a home address or medical insurance or anything that’s going to be required of him once the police arrive, once an ambulance comes on the scene. I’m not even sure a hospital could fix what’s wrong with Cain.

I’m not sure he can manage back to his feet again, though he’s trying. He’s hurt, but I’m not. I feel fine. Terrified, yes, but I’m staying calm about it at least.

_Cain, I’m sorry. I’m going to --_

It’s all the warning I can give him, because soon as I think about what I want to do, I’m doing it. There’s resistance, this tissue paper-thin block I brush aside. It’s like sweeping back a curtain or sliding into a soft, freshly-washed shirt. It’s like pouring water into an ice tray, this wavering effort of infinitesimal struggle to level everything out. It’s like nothing I’ve ever experienced before, taking over Cain’s body.

I clench my fingers, Cain’s blunt-edged nails claw jaggedly at the pavement. I shudder in a breath, Cain’s ribcage heaves. I take control of this battered, bloodied demon and suddenly become something more than mere thoughts and feelings. I become a chaotic ruin of blistering white-hot pain, this constant shredding sensation like ravaging jaws closed tight and shaking.  

A scream rips through my throat -- Cain’s throat -- I can’t tell anymore, I don’t know anymore, I don’t know anything except agony, this is too much to feel -- too much to think, I’m not sure I can be all these things, it’s too much, it’s impossibly too much. Simply impossible.

_Switch me! Abel, let go! Let go!_

Pressure surges forward, there’s no resistance at all. Not even a tissue paper effort, not even a whisper. Soft lidded darkness parts with a bisected waver. Perspective whirls and straightens, it’s rolling over and then pushing upright, staggering forward. Boots pound off the pavement, even as concerned strangers shout, because it’s those bystanders arriving to make everything so complicated.

It’s not impossible now to think about things and understand them. I’m not in control of Cain’s body anymore, I’m definitely not going to try that again. I’m not sure if it hurt because Cain’s hurt, or if that’s just what it’s like trying to control a body that’s not mine. I don’t want to know anyway, I’ve got enough to think about as Cain runs from this car accident that wasn't an accident at all.


	19. Chapter 19

“Fuck.”

It’s the first he’s spoken since mocking Deimos. There’s nothing to see but the red-black luster of his closed eyelids. I thought all these deep, measured breaths meant he’d passed out finally.

“You fucking --” Cain rolls onto his back with a weary groan. He must have been out after all, he sounds groggy and slurred, thickly unfocused. “You’re unbelievable.”

_Me?_

“Yeah.” He’s hushed, not whispering so much as intentionally quiet. His hands lift into his eyes, he rubs mottled, exhausted circles. The gesture’s heavy and slow. Cain drops his hands into the grass and looks at the sunrise-warm expanse of softening sky.

I’m positive the dew-soaked cold grass isn’t comfortable, but it’s better than where he’d originally tried to collapse. I urged him to find somewhere no one would see him from the street. He’s tucked into a smoking area outside an office complex for now, but he’ll need to leave soon. I just hadn’t wanted to wake him.

_Are you feeling any better?_

He answers like I expect with, “Sure. Why not?”

It’s lacking in sarcasm. He doesn’t put enough vibrating growl into the words for them to carry anger. I can’t tell if his voice is soft like this because of the moment or because he’s just talking to a voice in his head. He keeps looking at the sky, doesn’t say anything else. I hope he’s okay.

Worrying over Cain is easier than worrying over myself, like where my body might be, or if I’m really only something that thinks and feels inside Cain. If I think too much about what’s happened to me, I’ll stop feeling calm.

_Cain?_

“Hmn.”

_You need to be somewhere no one will find you. It’s a workday. People will be here soon._

“Fuck off,” he groans. It’s a wretched effort. He rolls to his side and struggles onto his elbows, his knees. Cain sits upright to look around at the glass half-enclosure that isn’t more than a wind shield and ashtray. He braces a hand to the ground as he leans to see more of the lit parking lot around the side of the building.

He gets the rest of the way to his feet, sways only a little before deciding to brace himself against the glass. His arms cross over his chest, his shoulders hunch. I think he might be cold. He must be cold. He hasn’t a jacket, a coat, his forearms are bare except for dried blood. He’s just in a shirt and jeans, the things I bought him, the wounds I gave him. 

Everything’s inside Aidan’s car or with me, my body, wherever it is. Everything I can think of to help Cain isn’t with him. He doesn’t have any money, no credit cards, no cash. He can’t buy himself a coat, he doesn’t know anyone to give him one. It’s too risky to send him to my house, I don’t dare send him to Aidan’s either.

I have no idea if Aidan is okay. He must be okay. Those bystanders would have called for help, they’ll help Aidan because this is my safe, living world. Cain’s a dead thing running around in it, no one’s going to help him except me, a necromancer -- I guess I’m his necromancer, and Deimos wants to kill him.

I’m so full of questions, but Cain gets one out first. “Where am I going?” he asks. Brusque and bossy, even though he’s looking to me for all the answers.

_I don’t know. Cain, what are we going to do about Deimos?_

“I’ll handle Deimos,” Cain says. “Don’t you worry your pretty head over him. Now, princess, you got a castle for me to hide in, or am I on my own?”

_Oh. Well, I - I can probably think of somewhere for you to rest for a bit, but, um, you can’t walk around with cuts on your arms though, so I’m not sure what to do about that..._

Cain’s eyes close. His head hits up against the glass. “You’re fucking worthless.”

I think he’s smiling. He sounds so quiet, but it must be because I’m a voice in his head. Surely I’m imagining fond affection in the insult. He’s amused by me at best, annoyed with me often, I don’t know anymore if I knew ever. I’m inside Cain’s head and still don’t understand him.

It’s not my heart beating loud and fast like this, I don’t know if I have a heart anymore, I’ll have to convince Cain to keep sharing his with me. I want to cry and can’t. I want to feel Cain’s arms around me, not this strange half-awareness where I know he’s arms-crossed hugging his chest for warmth in the bitter winter chill.

“Abel,” he says suddenly. Snapping at me, actually sounding angry. His eyes open, through his eyes I see his arms, those cuts I gave him, everything whirls too quick for me to follow as he lifts his head and looks nearly anywhere else. He settles on the sky again where stretching pink glow is overtaking grey dawn. “Stop panicking.”

_I’m not. Or, I am, I don’t know. I’m trying to stay calm. Cain, am I dead now? Be honest. Please._

He laughs. Quick, startled, I’m not sure he meant to because he sounds neither angry nor mocking. “Sweetheart, you’re as alive as ever,” he says. I’m pretty sure he’s smiling, but I can’t see his face. He might also be trying not to chatter his teeth at the cold.

I give up trying to keep track of what Cain’s doing, not when he’s willing to answer questions -- able to answer questions, which prompts further worry from me.

_Are you going to be okay? Are you okay now? How could I hurt you that much? It doesn’t seem possible._

Cain’s started snarling halfway through my torrential outburst of fretting, but I’m a voice in his head now. He can’t easily get me to shut up.

_What are we going to do? What am I going to do? Cain, where am I?_

He tries anyway, growling a harsh, “Shut up! Abel, cut it out! Just, stop talking. Calm the fuck down.” I’ve quieted, but he keeps going without pause to block my blathering terror. “Let me handle this.”

_How? Fight it? Fight me?_

“Sure. Why not?” Arching sarcasm accompanies the flick of his gaze over the parking lot. Cain starts walking, arms folded against his chest. “Fought to keep hold of you, didn’t I? Some fucking gratitude won’t hurt you. Think I’m any happier about us sharing a body than you are?”

_No…I guess not._

“Damn right, but you don’t see me panicking about it, do you? No? No. Because that would be stupid, and I know that you’re a complete fucking dumbass, but try to appreciate the fact that you freaking out makes it really fucking hard for me to stay calm about the fact I have a goddamn necromancer up in my head controlling me around like a fucking puppet.”

Cain’s snarled monologue is mostly hissed and whispered, so I have a moment of clarity to appreciate the full ridiculousness of the situation. He’s walking around talking to a voice inside his head. I’m the voice he’s talking to, and even I think he sounds crazy right now. Sudden empathy strikes me, a new understanding of Aidan’s perspective, but thinking too much about what happened to Aidan will only make me panic.

_Okay. I’m sorry, Cain. Um, am I really controlling you? I don’t mean to. Don’t listen to me. Or, no, don’t do that, you need to listen to me -- no one else can hear me, please don’t stop listening to me._

The dark, ominous rumble of Cain’s laugh seems more annoyed than usual, less amused -- not amused at all, really, and Cain stops walking. He comes to a halt there on the sidewalk and glares up at the sky, mouth flat and brows tight to such an extreme that I can feel them through the echoed sensations that form all my awareness of Cain’s body. This terrifying, confusing impossibility where I’m inside Cain’s body makes so little sense to begin with, but I’m positive that Cain is glaring.

So I expect his voice to sound harsh. It’s soft instead, barely a whisper. “Forget I said anything. You’re fine, sweetheart. You’re fine. I’ll handle this.” He glances to the street, turns to look back at the building, and then eyes the sky again before sighing. “Yeah. I’ll handle this,” he says.

The lack of confidence hits like a physical blow, even though I’m nothing physical anymore. I’ve lost my body, and now I’m terrified to ask Cain if he knows where I am because the answer might be no. I might have done something Cain doesn’t understand, not just that he won’t tell me or doesn’t want to tell me, but that he can’t explain this. Cain’s been able to explain everything so far, or seemed like it at least.

Cain stops watching the sky, starts walking like he’s got a destination in mind. I’m too scared to ask. Too scared to do anything, other than feel scared and think about feeling scared, even though that runs counter to exactly what Cain and I just talked about. He doesn’t snap at me for it, so maybe I’m doing okay. Maybe my fear is such that he can’t notice, or it’s been a constant enough emotion that he expects this.

I don’t realize what Cain’s doing at first. I’m not exactly keeping that close of tabs on him, despite the temptation and lack of distraction otherwise. He’s the full focus of my unfocused attention, but it’s only when the car door opens that I realize he’s been walking along trying each door handle for just this moment.

I ask even though it’s obvious. Not many other reasons for Cain to pry his blunt-edged nails under the steering column and rip off the front panel.

_What are you doing?_

“Handling shit.” Cain’s smug, cocky response is a balm of soothing comfort. I’m actually pleased to watch him yank apart the multi-colored wiring, at least until he mutters, “What’s all this shit?” and hesitates over two identical-looking green wires. Cain lifts his head to check the street before tipping his head under the steering column again and yanking both green wires close to a red one.

A whooping protest comes from the bowels of the car, the alarm shrieking and wailing now that Cain’s sparked it into a fury. His head slams into the wheel as Cain jerks upright. “Son of a bitch!” He slaps the center of the console in retaliation and then abandons the car.

Only once he’s gotten several streets away and slowed to a normal walking pace do I dare comment.

_I’m not sure it’s possible to hot-wire a car anymore. Um, you’d need to override the alarm lockout on the computer…? And I’m not sure how you’d do that, honestly, but maybe --_

“The what?” Cain’s head shifts as if I’m walking beside him. He hisses, “There’s a fucking computer in the car?”

_Um… yes._

Cain stops and turns. He looks back the way he came and frowns. “When?” he demands. “When did hot-wiring a car get so fucking complicated?”

It seems like a rhetorical question, and Cain seems angry asking it, so I decide not to answer. He keeps standing there on the sidewalk with an impatient, attentive air until I realize the question was literal, not rhetorical. Cain really expects me to answer him.

_When did…? Oh. Um, gosh, I - I don’t know. 90s maybe?_

A slow-crawling, deliberate stare moves along the quiet side street with dense-packed lines of parked cars on either side. Cain turns his head, this is such a deliberate thing he is doing and I have no idea why. Not until he demands, “Any of these made before then?”

He answers his own question with, “Doesn’t look like it,” and starts walking. Cain sets a brisk pace, I can’t tell if that’s to keep himself warm or just the way he walks, or maybe he’s turned into a bloodhound on a trail now. We go up and down the streets looking at cars trying to find one older than me, but they’re all barely older than my jeans. Cain circles a sedan and even peers inside to let me check out the interior, but the CD players nixes it as a possibility.

“Here we go,” says Cain. I think he means the hybrid parked in the street, but then his gaze stays steady on a beige-colored tarp draped over the low body of a car parked in the narrow driveway. Cain sweeps his attention over the brick townhouse and then keeps going, past the car, right up to the front door. On the way he kicks one of two plastic-wrapped newspapers toward the steps and succeeds in sending it sideways into the flowerbed.  

_Cain. Cain, what are you--?_

Behind him, briefly, a painfully casual yet tense check, and then his elbow goes into the glass pane of the entry.

_You’ll cut yourself!_

Cain’s already bloodied forearm knocks the broken glass out of the way so he can reach inside and unlock the door. I’m braced for an alarm system, voices, a barking dog, anything other than Cain humming nonsensical, self-satisfied melody as he lets himself into the house. He even closes the door.

_Did you hurt yourself? What are you doing? You can’t be here._

“Wrong on that one, sweetheart. I’m here,” Cain whispers. “Now shut up. I’m getting me a fucking coat. Maybe breakfast.” His gaze flicks away from the empty kitchen to check the equally empty living room, and then Cain retreats toward the entry and front staircase.

For several minutes Cain stands at the bottom of the stairs and simply looks up at the second floor landing, the brief corner of hallway visible. At last he decides to go for it, even though Cain’s figured out there’s a blind spot. I’ve realized it as well, just from tracking Cain’s vision over the scene. He goes up the stairs with his head turned, body tense. The half-open door leading into mysterious darkness gives him a long pause before he continues.

Cain’s searching each room like leading a SWAT raid when I realize as worried as I am about Cain getting caught, I should be more worried for whoever tries to catch Cain.

_Don’t kill whoever you find. I don’t care even if I need a new body, don’t do it._

Cain scoffs. The timing and degree of amusement is somewhat reassuring. I think it means he wouldn’t have use for a dead body. I don’t think it means he wasn’t planning to kill someone. I have all kinds of new reasons to be grateful Cain finds the upstairs as empty as the downstairs.

I’ve put together a weird understanding of the man whose house Cain is ransacking. No family photos anywhere, an immaculate home office, the third bedroom looks like an honest guest room with an untouched, impersonal bed and empty closet. Cain finds the master bedroom and finds the crisp business suits I expect in the closet. His digging turns up two different black coats, both of which he tries on and then discards. I pay more attention to his arms than anything, because each time I get a glimpse of the fresh cuts from the broken glass, the harder it is, until finally I can’t any longer.

Cain’s holding a third black dress coat at arm’s length when I decide to start bothering him. Rather than ask, though, I decide to give him the answer first and just see what he says.

_The cuts I gave you didn’t heal, but the ones from the glass did._

Cain’s response is to stop what he’s doing and demand, “So?” He then tosses the coat to the floor in disgust. A hard shove sends hangers and clothes squeaking along the bar in the closet. “What about it?”

I don’t actually have anything for him. I’m still thinking when Cain hauls one of the coats up from the carpet and slings it on. He holds his hands out to check the too-short length. “Fuck this guy. Ought to burn this fucker down, make him get better shit.” He kicks aside the other two coats and then leaves. 

Downstairs, Cain goes right out the front door and even closes it behind himself even though the narrow entry window is smashed to pieces. From the street that might not be obvious, maybe, I don’t know. It isn’t like Cain’s fingerprints will match any in the system, or --

_Have you ever been arrested? Was this body ever arrested?_

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he hisses. “Are you scheming again? Don’t. Your ideas are shit, remember the exorcism?”

_No, I -- I was just curious. Um, your fingerprints? Police trace people that way, so, your fingerprints are probably all over that house now. And --_

Cain’s gotten up close to the tarp-covered lump on the driveway. The whisking reveal is of a sleek black sports car definitely older than me, definitely older than computers being small enough to fit inside anything. It’s locked, Cain tugs twice to make sure, and then he’s back inside the house searching.

_A car like that is so flashy, it must be really expensive. The owner will report it missing. The cops will find you right away, Cain, they’ll arrest you --_

“Relax, sweetheart.” He snags a set of keys from the junk drawer. As Cain turns, I catch sight of grocery list on the fridge pinned in place with a retro sports car-shaped magnet. It’s the only bit of personalization I’ve spotted so far in this catalog-perfect townhouse that seems like somewhere my dad should live.

“Cops show up, I’ll handle it,” Cain says. “You worry too much.” He hums a bit as the key slides into the door, the lock lifts, he plunges the squared-off mechanism of the handle flush with the panel -- I’m actually not sure I’ve been inside a car this old. There’s an obscene amount of sloping, pointlessly aerodynamic hood in front of the dash, a ridiculous 200 at the bottom of the speedometer, a terrifyingly loud roar of engine as Cain cranks the car to life. I'm pretty sure he laughs. It sounds like a cackle, a gleeful burst of fiendish excitement. 

_Cain. Cain, maybe you shouldn’t -- no, check your mirrors!_

He’s already out of the driveway, in the street, he didn’t look at all before reversing so there's not much point now in his brief glance at the rearview mirror. He’s not buckled either. Did cars have seat belts this long ago? Didn’t we all just learn a valuable lesson about seat belts? Then again, Cain walked away from that wreck. Ran, actually, he ran from the wreck, even if he had to crawl his way out of it at first.

_Cops will arrest you for driving reckless, Cain, please, that is a stop sign. That is a -- STOP! Cain, stop the car!_

His foot smashes the brake so fast that the car lurches, the transmission groans, I think there are more parts to this car than I can name because I only ever learned to drive an automatic, and Cain’s fury gets tangled in the gear shift, the clutch -- I’m pretty sure that’s called a clutch -- but, I really don’t --

“Abel!” Cain’s done with keeping the car alive, now he hits it, pounds his fist into the center of the wheel. The horn beeps slightly in protest. Cain shakes his fist like he wants to punch it again for talking back, and it’d be comical if the car wasn’t taking this abuse in my place. “Abel, goddammit, you are going to get us both killed if you don’t shut the fuck up!”

I’m not sure it’s helpful that I immediately become grateful Cain can’t do anything like hit himself to hit me, because I have no doubt he would try. At least I’m calm. I don’t think Cain would like it if I pointed that out to him, especially since it’s actually I’m calm _now_. Emphasis on the present state of the car being stopped.

_Let me drive. Can I drive? Will it hurt again if I try to control you?_

“Shut up,” Cain snarls. “Shut up, or I am kicking you out.”

_Of the car?_

“Of my head,” he snaps. 

I have no idea if that’s possible. Regardless of whether or not he means the threat, I genuinely have no idea if he can get rid of me. I couldn’t get rid of him. Then again Cain’s had so many of the answers, even if he won’t share them with me, so maybe he could get rid of me. If I stop being a separate set of thoughts and feelings inside of Cain, than what am I? Am I still anything?

I don’t dare ask Cain. He already said I wasn’t dead, he obviously doesn’t want me talking any longer, it’s probably distracting him. I don’t want to distract Cain while he’s driving. I am terrified to do anything now that Cain’s driving.

I resist the urge to scream when the stop light changes to yellow and the car accelerates. I can’t imagine this car has any side-impact safety rating. I’m still not even sure it has seat belts. It probably does, that seems reasonable, I’m not sure I’m staying calm but at least I’m thinking about things other than screaming at Cain. He doesn’t beat the yellow, cruises right through on a lazy red, gets caught at the next light despite trying to run it again. He stops, though. Cain at least understands stop lights.

Surely stop signs were invented first. That seems reasonable, he must know what stop signs mean if he knows how to drive a car, and clearly Cain wasn’t lying about being able to drive. He even obeys a stop sign, waits more patiently than Aidan to make a left turn at it. I shouldn’t have angered him so much, because now I can’t ask how Cain knows to drive but had to ask me about car alarms and the internet. I can’t even ask him where he’s going, but I guess it doesn’t matter. I’m just along for the ride.


	20. Chapter 20

It’s surprising when Cain breaks first, when he decides to start talking to the voice inside his head. He even turns down the radio. I’m not sure why. I guess so he doesn’t have to shout over the music.

No whispering this time, no strange softness. He’s brisk and growling, definitely annoyed with me, that’s obvious even discounting the rude way he asks, “You done having a hissy fit?”

I wasn’t the one yelling and hitting things, but I don’t point that out to Cain.

_Yes. I’m fine._

“Good.”

It sounds a bit sarcastic, mostly distracted. Cain checks the rearview mirror and then reaches up to adjust it some. Rather than watch for the light to change, he keeps an eye on the flow of traffic, tracks for too long a white sedan. I wonder if he’s worried about the police.

“Answer without panicking. Do you know where you are?”

_Besides here? No._

“Fine,” Cain snaps. He’s so quick and ready that I suspect it didn’t matter at all how I answered. The light changes to let Cain turn left onto the highway ramp. I try not to worry about the barreling roar of acceleration that he uses to gain speed. It’s easier to accomplish that modest goal once I hear Cain say, “That’s fine. I’ll find you. I know where you are.”

_You do?_

I told myself I wouldn’t ask Cain any questions, once he decided to start talking to me again, because I don’t want to shut up. Or get us killed, if me talking is really that distracting or -- worse -- if I really am controlling Cain. I told myself no more questions, and yet my incredulous reaction just compounds itself further.

_Where am I? My body, you mean my body, right? Where am I? Take me there. I want my body back, I want --_

“Stop. Shut up. No panicking.” Cain’s hand lifts, like I’m somewhere in the car to see the gesture. “You’re already there, you fucking idiot, and don’t say anything else stupid. Just listen. Can you do that?”

He’s teeth-gritted snarling, furious and snapping, and the question is so demeaning and rude that I realize he means it. He’s legitimately concerned. This is a genuine question, if I can listen and not panic as we talk about what happened to me and what we’ll do about it.  

_Yes. Yes, I’m sorry. I’ll listen._

“Good. This car’s too nice to crash.” Cain pats the matte beige plastic of the dashboard like greeting a loyal hound. And then without further preamble, “So you’re on the Otherside. Have to be. Get pissy about it if you want, but you’re the necromancer, not me. Obviously I didn’t put you there. You did this to yourself, sweetheart.”

Cain sighs, looks out the window for such a long moment that I wonder if it’d be panicking to remind him to watch the road. “I felt you reach, so I grabbed, and here we are. I’m stuck with you. Don’t suppose you know where I can find another necromancer?”

_Am I actually supposed to answer that?_

“Heh.” When Cain flicks a grin up at the rear view mirror, I realize he’s been adjusting it to look at himself rather than the back windshield of the car. “Go for it. Answer away, princess. You know where I can find another necromancer?”

_No. Of course not. Cain, I didn’t even know I was a necromancer until you told me. I still don’t really understand what that even means. Please tell me you mean stuck with me like you meant stuck in a dead body. Cain, please tell me --_

“Abel.” His eyes go to the mirror, so he can glare at himself to glare at me, and it’s more effective than lifting his hand or even yelling at me. It’s easier to judge where I am along the scale of amused to annoyed when I can see his face, easier to see that I’m scaring him because I can’t stay calm. I’m this panicking voice inside his head that keeps telling him what to do with increasing desperation. Cain is operating a motor vehicle at highway speeds, and I’m freaking out inside his head.

_Sorry. Sorry, Cain, I’m okay. Just, scared._

His long glance at the side mirror is either to check traffic or ignore me. Cain switches lanes before saying, “Yeah. I know. Pretty fucking obvious, but try harder at keeping your shit together. Okay?”

_Okay._

“Okay, then.” He breaths like bracing himself and rolls his fingers over the wheel. “So I can’t find you from here. Doesn’t work that way. I could find you easily if I was on the Otherside, but I’m not crossing by myself so don’t even think about it.”

It’s a warning. A dire one, too, because he’s quiet about it and not just because I’m a voice in his head. We’re completely alone inside the car, there’s no risk of anyone overhearing him or getting suspicious, no risk of getting caught besides the flashy stolen sports car currently exceeding the speed limit.

_Could you?_

“Don’t,” Cain snaps. “Don’t even fucking think about it. I’m staying on this side.”

_I just want to know if it’s possible._

Silence forms his response. Cain glances to the side mirrors, the bit of back windshield he’s left himself in the rearview. He looks at the passing signs overhead announcing exits and lane splitting, and then a mile later watches the signs until they’re out of sight.

“I don’t know,” he says at last. “I’ve never tried. Why the fuck would I? I can’t go from the Otherside to here by myself, I’ve tried that loads, plenty of motive, everyone’s doing it. That’s the popular direction, sweetheart, you’re one in a million for thinking to do it the other way on a whim like this.”

_It wasn’t a whim! We got hit by a car._

“No, I get it. Can’t get hurt in a car crash if you’re not part of it, can’t get fucked over by Deimos if you’re not around in the aftermath. Honestly it’s a neat party trick once you figure out how to get yourself back here.” He glances into the mirror so I can see his smirk, but then he looks away. There’s enough echoed sensation that I can tell the smile fades.

Cain’s worried over something. Me, it must be me, he must be worried about me and that’s terrifying. I don’t want a demon to worry about something I’ve done. I don’t want to have done something that worries a demon because he doesn’t know how to undo it, that’s even worse.  

Knowing that I’ve started to panic isn’t exactly helping me stop before Cain notices, and then it’s too late. He’s scowling reassurances into the mirror. “Abel, it’s fine. I’ll find you.”

_How? You just said you can’t and won’t and don’t know._

“I’ll figure it out somehow, you stupid piece of shit, without the help of my worthless fucking necromancer. You got yourself into this mess. You reached like you knew what the fuck you were doing, so of course I grabbed you and fought like hell to keep you.” Cain hits the steering wheel. “I should have let you go. Dammit!” Another hit, hard enough to knock the horn, and brake lights flash in front of us from whomever Cain’s confused by honking.

_But I didn’t do anything! I remember we were going to get hit, and I - I think I even remember the impact, maybe, but I don’t --_

Suddenly I recall that exact last moment, that small eternity of regret and despair and fear -- and the clench of my fist into Cain’s hair, my last physical sensation. I think very rapidly over everything Cain’s said and done since the crash, everything I’ve experienced since the crash.

_What if you let me go now? Would I go back to my body?_

“Who the fuck knows,” Cain growls. It’s a rhetorical question, there is no answer, I know that, but it gets me thinking anyway. I’m still thinking when Cain decides to give a more serious answer. “Probably not. You don’t know where you are. Just say put with me, sweetheart, I’ll get you out of this mess.”

_Phobos asked me to send him from this side to the Otherside. Maybe he knows how? And if I’m with you, then you don’t have to cross by yourself, right?_

Cain shoots a brief glare to the mirror. “No,” is all he says. A firm, resolute _no_ without any further sarcasm or follow up, so I know he means it. That won’t stop me from trying again, although I leave him alone for a bit. He’s back to focusing on highway signs, which makes me wonder if Cain has any idea where he’s going.

He speaks before I’ve figured out how to reapproach the subject. He sounds confident and self-assured as he says, “Alright. So there are my options. Wait for another necromancer, or play hide and go fucking seek with the one I’ve got.”

_How long would you wait?_

“Forty years,” says Cain. He flashes a smartass smirk at the mirror. “Maybe less, searching from this side. Maybe never if your world gets anymore fucking complicated. This used to be a lot fucking easier.”

I can’t believe I’m getting more or less straight answers out of Cain for once, and I don’t want to jinx it even though I have hundreds of questions stockpiled. I think carefully and make sure I’m perfectly calm before prying a little further.  

_How so?_

“It’s called demon summoning, sweetheart. People used to kill each other just for the honor of killing for me. Necromancers knew what the fuck they were doing, did shit on purpose. Things used to be simpler, no fucking fingerprint tracing or computers inside cars. No one needing little fucking plastic with your face on it, keeping track of you in databases, serial numbers and -- fucking electricity everywhere, fancy hospitals, all this bullshit.” His hand gestures to the passing strip malls and gas stations, stretching billboards, desolate intermittent spots of activity lining the stretch of highway. 

“Used to be the necromancer did the calling, I did the answering. Now I gotta run around as a fucking cat just to get noticed. Used to be forty years felt like nothing, a hundred years felt like nothing. Now you blink and everything’s tits up." Cain sighs, pulls his gaze from an illuminated billboard advertising the local news. “If we hadn’t done this the hard way, the risk wouldn’t be so high. I wouldn’t be stuck on this side without you, I’d be ditching a dead body. Hope you’re happy, princess.” He's quiet, even though he doesn't need to be. 

_I’m not._

“Yeah. I figured,” Cain hushes. He winds the car around a series of exit loops to reverse directions, starts heading toward the city again rather than away from it. “Hide and go seek it is, then. Let’s go do what Princess Abel wants, because that always ends well.”

I keep quiet for the drive back into the city. I can’t tell if Cain’s furious, annoyed, worried -- I have no idea what Cain is thinking, now that he’s turned the radio up and stopped talking to me. I don’t think he’s happy with me, but I’m not really sure when Cain’s ever been happy with me. I keep messing everything up. I apparently jumped into Cain rather than stick around, so now here I am with no idea how to un-jump or even find my poor, abandoned body.

I’ve gained a new appreciation for having a body at all, for having a physical presence. Now I’m barely more than memory, nothing more than thoughts and feelings, but I do have a body somewhere. A living body, waiting for me. I hope it’s waiting. I desperately hope my body isn’t wandering around somewhere without me in it.

“Can’t fucking believe this,” Cain mutters. I’m pretty sure that’s what he says. Most of it gets lost into the radio. I guess it does matter if he turns the volume down. It must be like I told Aidan, I’ll only hear whatever Cain hears.

When Cain nudges down the radio, I know it’s so he can say something. He asks me, “How do I get to where you crossed before? That exorcism room, the one I couldn’t get into from the Otherside.”

_Keep on the freeway until exit twelve, but, Cain -- Deimos was there last time. He did the exorcism._

It takes me several seconds to realize Cain’s shrugged. He seems to realize this as well, belatedly tosses out a sneering, “So?”

_Deimos wants to kill you. He said he had killed you._

“And I said I’d handle Deimos. He’s not the first to try. Fuck, he’s not even the first to succeed. Trust me, sweetheart, if there’s anything I can handle, it’s someone trying to kill me.” Cain laughs, a rolling roil of mockery and scorn. “I don’t even have to worry about keeping you clear of the chaos. You’re right here with me, safe and secure.” He thumps a hand to his chest, grins into the mirror.  

He sounds gleeful. I think he’s looking forward to fighting Deimos.

_I don’t know how to get into the building. It’s Praxis’ place, I guess, um, I’m not sure actually but he’s been there both times I’ve been there. He’s the one who tried to help me forget about you._

“Some fucking sorcerer or whatever won’t be a problem.”

_Should we try contacting Phobos? I don’t know if he can be trusted, but --_

“Fuck no,” says Cain. “Not getting a fucking fairy involved in this, shit’s complicated enough already. His damn fault for getting himself stuck here, not mine, not yours. I don’t want you talking to him.”

_You’re not the boss of me._

It’s the most childish, immature response imaginable. I don’t even know why I say it, besides the overwhelming amount of terror and anxiety that is fueling the moment.

I get a laugh from Cain. Fully amused, too, he doesn’t seem annoyed in the least. “No, princess. I’m certainly not,” he says. Sounding smug, despite the admittance, and I have no idea if this is him mocking me or acknowledging an actual truth. I have no idea now if I should apologize for being rude. Cain’s unapologetically rude to me. I decide to keep quiet.

I sulk long enough that Cain notices, glances into the mirror like he expects to see something besides his own dark eyes, dark brows, a gentle scowl of an expression more like he’s puzzled than anything. “What?” he prompts me.

_Nothing. I’m fine. Sorry._

Cain scoffs. “For what, shutting up finally? Don’t be.”

_Oh. Um, okay._

It’s silence between us. Actual awkward silence, even though one of us is mostly silence anyway -- one of us isn’t in the car. Would Cain be looking at me, instead of his own reflection, if I was actually in the car? I can’t even tell what his level expression means besides a lack of eyes on the road. The strangest part of being inside Cain like this is being able to focus on the corners of his vision. Surely he’s aware of the brake lights ahead.

I’m almost ready to scream when Cain slows the car. He looks to the road and slows further, glances, and then shifts lanes. “So then,” he says. His gaze goes into the mirror. “What’s the plan?”


	21. Chapter 21

“That’s a dumb plan.” The long slurping sound of the last dregs whisking into the straw punctuates Phobos’ announcement.

A scowl tightens over Cain’s brow. “You got a better one?” he demands.

I don’t think Phobos knows Cain near as well as I do, because he turns his head aside with a snooty sniff and doesn’t answer. Cain meant that question, it wasn’t rhetorical. We both know the plan sucks, that’s the whole reason Cain’s sitting in the passenger seat of the massive black SUV that tried to kill us talking to the driver who purposefully accelerated through a red light to do so. This is borderline suicide, but it’s part of the shitty plan we came up with so I guess it’s happening.

Phobos chews on the end of the straw for a moment before leaning forward to check out the front entrance of the mall. “Throw this away,” he says. He thrusts the empty cup out at Cain.

“Fuck off,” snaps Cain.

“I don’t want trash in my car.” Phobos rakes a sneer over Cain. “For any longer than necessary, at least.”

Cain clenches his fist, jerks forward --

_Don’t hit him! Just do it, take the cup, it’s okay._

Plastic crumples as Cain chokes his hand around the remains of Phobos’ enormous sugar-stuffed frappe. The tight line of his jaw seems uncomfortable, but it still isn’t tight enough to stop a slow, ominous growl.

Phobos makes a shooing motion with his hand. “Go. Trash cans are by the doors there.”

_Please, Cain, please just do it._

The passenger door shoves open, Cain’s boots thump into the pavement. He slams the door and then stomps across the parking lot. A mini-van brakes hard to avoid hitting him and honks, Cain flips off the driver without even looking -- I just see his lifted finger swing out to the side, I use the corner of his vision to keep track of the situation. Fortunately he stops before I have to remind him about behaving in public.

I think Cain understands the risks, even given his eagerness to steal cars and break into homes. I convinced him to wait until the mall opened before going inside, I even convinced him to say more or less nice things to the sales associates to make them go away while Cain used one of the display computers. Somehow I managed to talk Cain through using the internet to find Phobos’ Instagram feed to message him about meeting.

Actually that part was easy. The hard part was convincing Cain to leave the store after we were done. I told him the display computers had a time limit, that his was almost up and that the employees would make him leave. I have no idea if he could tell I was lying. I suspect I didn’t sound believable. Too many _ums_ in my explanation for why Cain should leave.

“I’m not doing this,” Cain hisses. Soft, quiet, because even for a weekday the mall entrance is crowded enough that he doesn’t want to be overheard talking to himself. “I’m not, okay? Think of something else.”

_I know. I know, I hate him too, but he can get us inside. That room without shadows, if you think that’s where we can cross --_

“I’m staying,” Cain declares. He spikes the drink cup into the trashcan. “Fuck the whole plan.”

Rather than turn for the parking lot, Cain goes for the mall entrance. He’s got the door handle, he’s yanking it open.  

_What are you doing? Phobos can see you, he’s going to leave -- Cain, stop! Don’t move!_

He rocks to a halt inside the vestibule, stuck between the sets of doors and two women trying to leave. They awkwardly apologize, smile and shuffle, while Cain stands there, fists clenched, trembling with fury. Helpless, because the voice inside his head got panicky, started screaming orders that I’m pretty sure he can’t ignore.

_I’m sorry. You can move, I’m sorry. Please go back outside though, please._

A wordless snarl accompanies Cain out the door. Brisk strides take him down to the curb, but he doesn’t cross into the parking lot. He stares at the black SUV, visible in its parking spot thanks to its hulking size.

_You won’t be crossing by yourself, Cain, I’ll be with you._

“Abel,” he says. There’s not a follow up, not at first, he runs a hand through his hair. He sighs. Cain looks up at the mid-morning sky and sighs again, heavier than the last. Something’s weighing him down, something he wants to say.

A final sigh contains his, “Sure.” The follow up of, “Why not?” contains so much sharp sarcasm it hurts. He marches out to the SUV, to where Phobos is waiting.

Cain’s hand hesitates over the car handle. “I fucking hate you,” he whispers. He jerks the door open with a grunt, like the effort’s uncomfortable.

Despite Phobos comment about trash in his car, the interior of the vehicle is cluttered. Baubles and bright charms dangle from the rear view mirror beneath a set of pink fuzzy dice. Canvas totes and reusable shopping bags litter the floorboard in the back.

I’m pretty sure the cargo hold has crap in it, I can see a wire cage or kennel at least, but Cain hasn’t gone looking so I really have no way of knowing. I’m pretty sure this vehicle’s amenities include protection spells and wards and all kinds of things I don’t understand but know can’t be good for Cain. I know this could be a trap, could easily turn into a trap. Deimos could be in the cargo hold with that knife, ready to stab Cain.

This is such a bad idea, and it’s mine. I’m giving Cain such horrible ideas, as horrible for him as being told to kill people was for me. Understanding why Cain’s furious with me isn’t very helpful, but at least it’s something to think about.

Phobos watches Cain get settled. The navy pea coat forms part of the clutter in the back seats, and Phobos’ stylish turtleneck and skinny dark jeans matches everything else about his pretty runway model look. I didn’t realize Cain was being serious both times he referred to Phobos as a fairy, but now looking at him I guess that makes as much sense as Cain being a demon.

“New plan,” Phobos says. He turns to face Cain, tosses his hair. His snobby expression doesn’t waver, nor does Cain’s scowl.

The cliche of fighting like cats and dogs seems accurate, given that neither of them seems able to stand the other based solely off what they are. Their greeting, in fact, consisted mostly of outing the other right away with finger pointing accusation. Phobos’ wide-eyed declaration of, _demon!_ , getting matched by Cain’s sneering, _fairy_. I think without me present, Phobos might have tried running Cain over with the SUV after that.

“We go right in the front door,” says Phobos. “Hide in plain sight.”

“How is that plan any less dumb than the one my necromancer came up with?” Cain demands.

Phobos’ pretty smile isn’t especially friendly. “No, it’s still a stupid plan, but at least it stands a chance. Sneaking in will never happen, trust me, Praxis has that place on lockdown. But so long as Deimos isn’t there, I should be able to convince him I know what I’m doing.”

_What if Deimos is there? Cain, ask --_

“So we kill Deimos first,” is what Cain says. He goes straight to the answer without my asking.

Phobos shakes his head. “If it were that easy, don’t you think I’d of done that already? I’ll tell Deimos I found you, send him off hunting. That’ll buy us time. We go in, get upstairs, and then your necromancer pulls us both across. By the time Deimos figures out I lied, it won’t matter.”

Cains looks out the front windshield, doesn’t say anything. By the patience radiating from Phobos, I suspect he thinks that Cain’s listening to me. Except, I’m being quiet, because it’s daunting telling Cain what to do. Both these plans are bad. All these plans are bad, everything about this situation is terrifying and awful. I just want my body back, and no one even knows how to find it, let alone get me back inside it.

“Don’t suppose you know where I can find another necromancer, do you?” Cain asks. He glances to Phobos with a sharp, toothy grin that I can feel pull at his cheeks. There’s nothing friendly about it, same as Phobos’ smiling response.

“There’s the body of one six feet under at Sunset Memorial, courtesy of Deimos,” he says. “By now I’m sure it’s mostly worms and formaldehyde. Not sure that’d be useful to you. To anyone, really, that was kind of the point. He’s nothing if not determined.”

Phobos sounds almost fond of this demon hunter he so casually dismissed killing. I’m a bit more focused on the fact Deimos likes to kill necromancers, though.

As is Cain, apparently. “When’d that go down?” he asks.

Phobos shrugs. “Fifty-two? Fifty-three? The year _Gentlemen Prefer Blondes_ was released, whenever the fuck that was.”

Cain’s response is just a slow, bewildered, “Huh.”

“Oh, and, sixty-something, late sixty-something, I crossed paths with one. Tall guy, good-looking, dangerous as hell. He was a Black Panther -- not literally, he wasn’t a shapeshifter, it was just the sixties and things were weird. Anyway, if you weren’t there I can’t explain it, and he’s probably long gone. Not that I’d know where or how to find him. I barely remember meeting him.”

Now Cain’s staring at Phobos, focused right on him. His hollow-voiced, “Yeah?” seems especially strange.

It’s strange enough Phobos notices, starts staring right back. “Also yours?” he asks, incredulous.

It’s Cain’s turn to shrug, it doesn’t seem like a comfortable response. “Oakland?”

“Near enough. Haight-Ashbury,” replies Phobos.

“Late sixties,” says Cain. He’s stopped snarling entirely. “Young looking?”

Phobos nods. “Under thirty.”

Their staring breaks, each of them looking elsewhere. My curiosity is bursting to the point of rudeness, and if I were actually in the car I would’ve already started in on my questions. I’m not in the car, not really, I’m just inside Cain, and Cain’s sick of my endless questions and telling him what to do.

“So… is he dead?” Phobos asks at last. His head turns, I see the motion from the corner of Cain’s flicked-away gaze.

“Yup.” Perfectly flat, no inflection at all.  

“Oh. Sorry?”

The scoffed dismissal isn’t much of an answer, even for Cain.

Phobos turns over the engine on the SUV, a surprisingly soft sound that results in a gentle purr. “Well,” he says. “You can crash at my place until tonight, Deimos definitely won’t find you there.”

While still not especially friendly, Phobos sounds less hostile. He looks over at Cain, but Cain’s looking out the windshield. It’s just me watching Phobos, but I’m not sure he can tell that. He knows I’m here, knew before Cain even got around to explaining it. After that initial hiss-and-spit greeting between them, demon and fairy, the necromancer got acknowledged and then dismissed. I’m not about to ask Cain to start relaying messages for me.

“Sure,” says Cain. Under his breath he adds, “Why the fuck not?”

Phobos swings the SUV out its spot and takes off across the parking lot obeying all the crosswalks and stop signs to accommodate pedestrians. Along the way, Cain spots and then keeps his eye on the black sports car he’s abandoning. I almost start to tell him it might still be there later, that we can come back for it, but I remember the magnet, the empty townhouse - the owner’s going to want his car back. Parked here at the mall, it’ll be easy for the police to find.

Cain’s jaw clenches when Phobos turns on the radio. He sinks low into his seat as Phobos turns up the volume. The low rumble in his throat is only vibration, I can’t actually hear him over the bouncing pop music. For someone who just talked about murder and mayhem almost half a century ago, Phobos certainly seems to embrace modern living. He’s humming along to the top 40, even sings a few lines of the catchy chorus. I contacted him through Instagram. Everything about this is crazy. I think I might not be the craziest person I know anymore, although maybe I am, since I’m watching this fairy from inside a demon.

I think again about what Cain said things moving slower, about waiting forty years, and this long-gone necromancer from the sixties who apparently Phobos met once. I fully appreciate for maybe the first time the sheer impossibility of the time involved in all this, the fact that neither Cain nor Phobos nor even Deimos looks really all that much older than me, probably not twice my age. Definitely not enough times older than me to account for all this.

With the bubblegum music blaring, I don’t bother with trying to ask Cain anything. Whatever he says back to me is going to get heard by Phobos anyway. I find it a bit ridiculous that we can’t talk privately despite sharing a body. I think about it while Phobos drives and Cain sulks, or whatever it is he’s doing.

_Cain? Cain, I’m sorry about earlier. I’m really trying not to give you any commands. And, I know this plan seems reckless -- well, it is reckless, but … I’m glad you’re helping. So, thanks for that, it means a lot. Um, that you’re here. That’s all._

The roll of Cain’s shoulders seems like my answer, until Cain rolls his fingers over his thigh, looks at himself do it, so maybe that’s my answer instead. Or he’s ignoring me. It’s impossible to know, without Cain saying anything.

Somehow the gate that Phobos has to fob open just to get into the parking lot seems suiting. The entire complex seems suiting, from the fountain out front to the quaint balconies dotted along the length of the buildings. Phobos drives around the manicured grounds to one of the buildings in the back of the complex and then taps the garage opener clipped between the dome lights. The SUV barely fits, Cain’s door nearly hits the wall. There’s nothing else in the garage, not even paint on the walls.

Phobos unlocks the door and then leads the way inside, the pea coat over his arm. “Don’t touch anything,” he says to Cain. “I’m not sure what might bite.”

A tight nook of closed doors in the short hall doesn’t provide any clue as to what Phobos means by that, although Cain’s answering grunt seems blandly affirmative. I guess Cain understands the warning. He keeps his hands in the pockets of the stolen coat as Phobos rounds the washer-dryer combo to reach the front entry and staircase leading up into the rest of the house.

It’s catalog-perfect decorating in the entry, with tasteful framed photos of generic black-and-white cityscapes, white marble flooring containing an oval rug, but Cain doesn’t look at any of it for long. He traces his gaze over the lintel where _home sweet home_ is written out with woodblock lettering, and maybe it’s my imagination or a trick of the light, but I doubt it. The black-painted wood gleams and glows with the same intractable quality as Cain’s eyes. I don’t think Phobos’ home is all that sweet to anyone he doesn’t want inside it.

“Are you hungry?” Phobos glances over his shoulder at Cain as they go upstairs. “I have food,” he offers, as if this is an accomplishment worthy of note.

The living room is less catalog perfect, clean and somewhat tidy despite ample clutter. More woodblock letters catch Cain’s attention, he finds _love_ and _wish_ on the living room walls and _eat_ in the dining room. His reply to Phobos is to shake his head and say, “Nah.”

“Well, if you get hungry,” Phobos says. He gestures at the kitchen part of the open floor plan. “Bedrooms are upstairs, don’t go there, use the couch if you want to lie down. I have cable -- do you know how to operate a television? Yes, of course you do. You have to. Right?”

Phobos’ wavering certainty ends when Cain looks at him. Glares at him, really, eyes narrowed and brow tight.

“Right,” says Phobos quickly. He goes to the coffee table and picks up the remote briefly, sets it back down. “Well, it’s here. Oh --” He gathers a laptop from the sofa cushions. Cain’s attention goes to it immediately, but Phobos starts for the stairs holding it. He disappears upstairs under Cain’s watchful eye and then reappears without Cain having looked away.

“Got a shower?” Cain asks.

“Yes, but you can’t use it,” Phobos replies. “It’s upstairs. Use the sink if you must.”

Cain side-eyes the dark-gleaming lettering on the wall. It’s a tense moment with suppressed mutual violence, I realize, even though it seems awkwardly silent instead. I don’t think Phobos wants Cain in his house anymore than Cain wants to be here, but Cain and I both know he doesn’t have anywhere else to go. Everything’s so complicated, he can’t just be a body walking around, he needs a name, a photo ID, so many things that suddenly I have to wonder how Phobos even has a car, a house, cable television, internet access, all these complicated things in my complicated world that he’s pretending to be part of.

“Sure.” Cain shrugs, looks around at Phobos’ pretend normal life. He checks out the teetering stack of fashion magazines shoved into the corner, turns his head to take in the bookcase loaded up just the same. Most surfaces seem to contain at least one or two of the glossy, colorful things now that I notice. They form the primary source of tidy yet crowded clutter.

Phobos lets out a held breath. “Okay, then,” he agrees. “I’m going. If you need to leave, don’t go downstairs. Use the balcony.” He points at the sliding glass doors in the dining room, just alongside the _eat_ set of woodblock letters. “I assume the height won’t be an issue for you?”

“Yeah, fine,” Cain says brusquely.

A few steps get Phobos closer to actually leaving. “Help yourself to whatever’s in the kitchen that’s edible. Maybe don’t open some of the cabinets.” He pauses with a hand on the bannister. “Use your best judgment,” he advises Cain. It’s a vague warning or an apathetic threat, I’m not even sure Phobos knows which. He hesitates further about leaving a demon unsupervised in his home before descending out of sight.

Cain goes to the living room window that overlooks the back of the building. There’s a modest run of trimmed grass and hedges to separate it from the street. Cain leans his head without touching the glass to see further, to look at more, I think maybe he’s anxious about something more than curious. He backs away from the window cautiously, like it might explode if he moves too quick.

Next Cain heads into the kitchen, doesn’t stray long over anything in particular on his way into the dining room. He watches through the glass sliding doors as Phobos’ SUV emerges from beneath the lip of the balcony, drives through the parking lot. Cain stays there for long enough I almost wonder if he’s okay, if maybe being inside Phobos’ house is more terrible than it seems.

At last Cain turns, goes into the kitchen. A vast array of colorful, whimsical magnets secure almost every available inch of the fridge in paper. Takeout menus, magazine cutouts, notes and lists in round, looped handwriting, a few faded newspaper clippings, recipes -- nothing particularly personal, no photos, just collected items of interest that say so much without meaning anything. It gives as much of an understanding of Phobos as that one single sports car magnet.

Inside the fridge is an absent horror of actual contents. There aren’t even condiments, besides a handful of ketchup packets hanging out in the drawer. A Chinese takeout carton and pizza box occupy the shelves along with a half-consumed sports drink. Cain closes the door, checks in the freezer and finds shriveled cubes in a plastic ice tray. He slams it shut and then sweeps his gaze over the rest of the granite countertop kitchen.

Fashion magazines occupy spaces meant for appliances and food prep, dishes. They’re stacked or scattered, one flopped open beside the sink and littered with tell-tale crumbs. A nearby set of bagels wrapped in their plastic bag get picked up, studied, and then tossed down in disgust by Cain. After a cautious study of the cabinet and drawers, Cain decides to open none of them. He checks the pantry, first tapping cautiously at the knob like checking for a live wire.

A bag of potatoes wiggling with sprouts greets him, it’s slung into the bottom corner. A few cans of condensed soup, one-pound bags of rice and beans, lentils, Cain picks up and sets down each thing with subsequently louder swearing. He ends up with one of the soup cans that has a pull tab, yanks it off with enough force that chicken noodle slops over his hand.

_Um, those are actually meant to be --_

Cain lifts his finger, flips off the pantry and makes sure I can see it as he keeps chugging straight from the room-temperature, still-condensed can. I’m disgusted on his behalf, horrified on his behalf. The profane gesture lowers as his head tips back for the last gloopy noodle and slimy chunk of too-cold to be pleasant chicken. He sets the empty can on the counter, or rather on one of the magazine stacks occupying the counter space.

The stolen coat ends up across of the silver-stemmed, white-cushioned barstools. Cain turns on the sink and adjusts the temperature until he’s satisfied. The flow of water passes over the ragged red lines on his arms.

He scrubs the dried blood with soap, seems unconcerned with the raw, open flesh. I’m concerned about how they’re not bleeding, not healing, maybe they look a bit better than before the crash, actually, now that he’s cleaned up the blood. Maybe all the blood made them look worse.

_Cain?_

“Hmn.”

More absent then anything, I think, he doesn’t seem to be scowling at anything. He’s not attacking the faucet to turn it off, he’s shaking his hands slow to dry them. As I hesitate over what to say now that I know he’s okay listening, Cain puts back on the black wool dress coat. By the time I figure out what I might want to say, he’s collapsing onto the sofa.

Cain’s left on his boots in blatant disregard or sheer exhaustion, I can’t tell. He tosses and turns to get comfortable and can’t on Phobos’ elegant white-leather sofa. 

_Cain, I’m so sorry. I wish I knew more about what I was doing. Is there anything I can do to help you right now? Besides shut up and let you sleep._

The intense study of the ceiling doesn’t waver. Cain’s decided to lie on his back, arms and ankles crossed. The dumbest question blurts out of me in the silence of Cain not answering the stupid one I already asked.

_Are vampires real?_

A genuine laugh escapes Cain and continues, builds, he has to sit upright with it. I’ve pushed him so far off the scale of amusement that Cain starts to cough these horrible, ragged coughs that remind me just what hell I’ve dragged this poor demon through since pulling him half-frozen from a lake in the middle of the night.

_Sorry. Sorry, Cain, you don’t have to answer that._

“Fuck yeah,” is what Cain manages. There’s a grin pulling his face when he gets the coughs and laughter both under control. “You really are the dumbest fucking necromancer. What the fuck makes you think vampires wouldn’t be real if demons, fairies, fucking wizards -- Sweetheart, didn’t your mother ever read you any bedtime stories?”

_No… I mean, I read books to myself... I - I’m not stupid, Cain, except in my world none of that is real, okay? My mom would have let a doctor cut my head open and rearrange it manually if she thought it would make me stop being crazy. That’s what I thought I was, Cain, I thought I was crazy, and - and - you know what? Fuck you. Seriously, Cain, fuck you for laughing at me when you don’t explain anything or answer a single question without me forcing you into it. Maybe I hate you. How’s that, Cain? I hate you. There. Now you’ve pissed off the voice inside your head that can tell you to do whatever it wants. And you think I’m the dumb one? Ha!_

Cain’s not saying a word back. He’s not even moving besides breathing, actually, and then blinking too I guess. Now that I’ve pause my tirade enough I can actually take in the silent, passive way Cain does nothing about the fact I’m freaking out on him like this.

I was just thinking of all the horrible things I’ve done to Cain, and here I am finding even more ways to hurt him. I have no idea what I’m doing, why I’m doing this. I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to hurt Cain or boss him around or threaten to hurt him further.

Such devastation fills me that I think Cain feels it, he starts to stir uncomfortably. He turns onto his back and snarls softly like he wants to tell me to shut up, stop panicking. I’m freaking out on him silently instead, and I’m sorry for that along with the rest.

I’m not sure if I’m calm or not, but I’m only thoughts and feelings and talking to Cain, so if I need to feel and think less then --

_Cain, is this what it means to be a necromancer? Is this what I can do, hurt you? Command you? Make you fight things and do anything even if it means getting you killed and - and what else? What other horrible things can I do?_

He’s hushed, even though we’re alone. No rumble, no snarl, mostly sigh. “You really want me answering that, sweetheart?”

_...No._

“Okay, then.” Cain watches the ceiling, like that’s the end of it. His eyes close finally, it’s sunshine-bright late morning sun flowing into the apartment. It's bright behind his closed lids. Cain turns toward the back of the sofa and hunches the wool coat over his head some until things darken.

_Cain?_

“Hmn.” It’s a soft acknowledgment, same as at the sink, as if my outburst never happened.

_Cain, I’m sorry._

His breathing’s gone slow and heavy like he might be asleep, except Cain slurs back, “S’fine.”

_I don’t really hate you._

The echoed sensation of Cain’s smile is pulled cheeks, same as any sharp-toothed sneer or jeering grin. His eyes open, he lifts his head like I’m somewhere in the room for him to see. That I’m somewhere in the room to see him. When I’m not -- when he remembers I’m not -- Cain stops smiling. He lowers into the sofa, curls the coat over his head to block the light.

I want to tell him goodnight. I want to tell him again that I’m sorry, that maybe I did mean some of that outburst but it was rude. Even if Cain’s rude to me, I don’t want to be rude back. That’s not who I am, that’s not the type of person I am. Even if I’m a necromancer, a monster, I still want to be me. Someone smart, nice, funny, caring -- surely I’m those things, surely that’s who I am, how I’ve lived my life. I had such a nice life. I was such a nice kid.

“Sweetheart,” groans Cain. “You want the TV on? I can’t stay awake to entertain you now and do this dumb plan later, princess, it’s one or the other.” Sarcastic and snapping, pushing himself upright to glare at the nothing I’ve become. Cain snatches up the remote and stares for too long at the plethora of buttons.

_It’s the red one, top left._

He jabs it. The screen flickers to life. I suggest a few channels, but Cain gets so distracted by putting in different number combinations that I stop, let him take over entirely. He starts scrolling through channels with rapt attention to even commercials, although he doesn't stay long with anything in particular. He interrupts celebrity spokespeople mid-sentence,  watches the opening credits to a sitcom and then flips to something else once the show actually starts. Cain's fascination with the television sets him into scowling, I'm not sure if that means he's upset or just focused, concentrating, trying to figure out my complicated world via toothpaste commercials and daytime soap operas.

When Cain gives up on the television in favor of trying to sleep, he leaves it running. So I'll have something to listen to, I suppose, although I'm full of a sudden curiosity how this is going to work once Cain is unconscious. He's closed eyes and steady breaths, a settled heaviness that's getting heavier. The shadowed darkness behind his shut eyelids seems to undulate into deeper oblivion. Am I imagining the television's gotten quieter? Is it just a quiet part of the show? 

I'm still braced for something to be different when I hear the end credits run on the show, a fast-paced announcer hyping the next vapid dose of weekday mush. I listen to the entire hour-long talk show with Cain still unchanged, quiet and heavy with closed eyes. All he asked for was a shower and a bed. That’s all he wanted, all he needed, I’m here with him still but it’s not the same. I can’t stroke my fingers through his hair, rub his weary shoulders. All I can do is let him rest, wait for him to wake up, move forward with this terrible plan to play hide-and-seek with my body. 


	22. Chapter 22

I don’t realize Phobos is there until the television volume lowers, his breathy voice makes up the difference between the silent dark nothing of Cain asleep and the rest of the room. “Necromancer, get him up. It’s time.”

If Cain’s still asleep then maybe I don’t want to wake him up. Maybe he needs his sleep. I can’t exactly explain that to Phobos, obviously. Without the television there’s very little for me to listen to, it’s already a strange muffled experience. I can’t tell where Phobos is standing, what he’s doing.

“Abel. Hey.” His fingers snap. “Necromancer. Wake your demon, let’s go.”

How many hours of bland, uninteresting programming did I not really listen to while Cain slept? How long has he been asleep? Why hasn’t he woken up, with Phobos hissing and snapping like this where I can hear, which means Cain can hear, and why doesn’t Phobos just wake up Cain himself? I have so many questions, none of the exact answers, but I can put together guesses. I guess I don’t really want to wake Cain either. Best case he’ll be grumpy. Worse case he’ll try to kill something, one of us maybe, actually now it makes sense because I’m the one thing in the room Cain can’t hit.

_Cain? Cain, can you hear me? Phobos is back._

It’s a strange way to whisper, a strange way to try being soft and kind about this. I’ve thought a lot about things, about what Cain’s said, about what all I can do or maybe what I might be able to do. I’ve wondered a lot about the other necromancers Cain’s known. Necromancers who were smarter than me, who knew what they were doing and did it on purpose. Other necromancers, bossing him around, making him kill for them, killing for him, getting him hurt and then hurting him.

_Cain?_

He stirs this time, I put a bit more force into it. His eyes open to the shadowed cushion, his head turns some to knock the coat back. No sunlight, the brightness is from the overhead light fixture, so that tells me a little about how much time has passed.

_Phobos is back, he asked me to wake you up. He’s somewhere in the --_

Cain’s already on it, already sitting upright and searching. He finds Phobos standing several feet away, navy pea coat and dark skinny jeans, creamy white scarf bundled under his chin and white knit gloves on his clasped hands. He’s standing very still, very stiff, chin lifted and gaze firm on where Cain’s groggily half-aware and rubbing at his face.

“Get up,” says Phobos. His eyes shift to Cain’s boots on the leather upholstery. A frown pulls down the pretty line of his smile, but he doesn’t comment on it.

On the floor beside him is a canvas shopping tote, the side decorated in a burst of bright vegetables. One more mystery, why Phobos has all these grocery totes and a kitchen devoid of food. He picks up the handle on the tote and then steps toward the stairs. “Ready?”

Cain gets to his feet. “Sure.”

I wait for the _why not?_ part of that answer, but he doesn’t say it. He flicks his attention to the television briefly and then looks up at the menacing woodblock letters so cheerfully inviting him to _love_ and _wish_ . Sincerely meant as the _home sweet home_ over the front door, I’m certain.

Phobos descends the staircase. “Come on, let’s go.” Cain follows him, but stops at the halfway point when Phobos says, “I’ve thought of a better plan.”

In the entry, Phobos turns to see Cain glaring down at him. I agree entirely with Cain’s decision to wait for an explanation before going further, but he should say something. I’m not sure Phobos is going to understand otherwise, he doesn’t know Cain like I do. But Cain says nothing, he continues down the stairs. He keeps an eye on that _home sweet home_ threat, doesn’t seem keen to put his back to it to follow Phobos through the laundry and utility nook, that tight blind-turn of closed doors that leads into the garage.

_Cain, if it was a trap he wouldn’t have said anything. I think, I’m not sure, but I don’t like this. What’s in that bag he’s got? Can you see inside it?_

Cain reluctantly pulls his gaze off the black-painted letters and catches up with Phobos. He tries for a glance inside the tote, but it’s a confusing half-second of colors and shapes I can’t make sense of -- fabric, pink, black, something plastic maybe.

_I couldn’t see anything. Didn’t look especially harmful though? I’m not sure._

Cain’s shoulder lifts some. I’m not exactly certain what that means, but it’s an acknowledgment at least. We’re on somewhat speaking terms, I guess, despite how awful I’ve been to him.

Phobos pops the locks on the SUV and starts up the engine from the fob. The rumbling strength of the hulking vehicular beast quiets into a gentle purr once we’re inside it, once the doors close to the cozy, dark interior. The canvas tote stays in Phobos’ lap.

“Okay,” Phobos says. Bracing himself for something that can’t be good. Despite the engine being started, the automatic garage door stays closed behind us. The doors are locked, and I bet Cain’s door won’t unlock if he tries the handle.

This feels entirely like a trap. The stiff set of Cain’s shoulders tells me he feels it, too, he feels as trapped as he is. I have no idea what Phobos is planning or what might happen. That’s terrifying, but I have to stay calm. I have to stay calm about things, no matter what happens. That’s somehow even more terrifying.

Phobos crushes the fabric handle of the tote between his gloved hands. “I want to talk to your necromancer,” he says. He looks directly at Cain, looks beyond Cain, his gaze seems a little unfocused somehow. He knows I’m in here, same as he knew Cain was inside me when we first met.

_Cain, can he see me? Can he hear me?_

“No,” says Cain. It suits for the answer to Phobos as well, but just from the way he’s said it I know that’s not the case. He would have answered Phobos differently otherwise. He wouldn’t have tapped his finger against his thigh enough times for me to notice otherwise.

“I talk to your necromancer or this doesn’t happen,” Phobos says.

“So talk. He can hear you.”

Phobos’ eyes narrow. “I’m aware of that. You know what I want, don’t play coy. Let him come talk to me. I only have your word he’s going along with this.”

“You think I’d be here if he didn’t want me here?” Cain’s more incredulous than sarcastic.

“I think you’re an especially clever demon or an extremely cruel one. This could be a trap,” says Phobos.

_Tell him it’s not. Remind him about how we found him, that business card he gave me. You wouldn’t have known about that if not for me._

“Won’t matter,” says Cain. He turns his head some without taking his eyes off Phobos. “If he doesn’t believe me, then he doesn’t believe me.”

_Well, then, I’ll talk to him._

Tightness drags Cain’s brow together with enough force I can actually see it at the top of his vision. I see the inward invasion of his scowl. His gaze flicks away from Phobos to the dashboard, the windshield, the dark-tinted windows that make this a terrible dark, tense moment.

_Cain? I’ll talk to him. How do I do that?_

The tapping of Cain’s finger against his thigh starts up again, turns into a clawing motion. “Fuck me,” he whispers. To himself, I’m pretty sure, he’s soft enough I’m pretty sure it’s not meant for anyone else besides himself. I’m certain that’s not my actual answer.

I won’t say anything about it, then, won’t ask what’s wrong. I won’t get pushy or panicky. I just wait.

“Be quick,” Cain says. “For fuck’s sake, be quick ” He takes in a few quick breaths, lets them out as strong puffs like getting ready to move a heavy piece of furniture. His tone turns brisk, less desperate and trapped, he’s snapping at me so that I know what’s wrong even before he says it. “You’re taking over, Abel. Got it?”

_I think so. I think I can do that. Like at the crash? Is there a better way though? That hurt. Cain, wait, wait, that really hurt when I did that --_

“S’fine! Just do it, Abel, stop making me wait. Do it.” Cain closes his eyes, winces them shut actually, so I really don’t want to do this. I think this is going to hurt one of us, and I don’t think Cain’s going to let that be me this time.

Maybe it’ll be better, since he’s not so hurt already, he’s rested, that was just right after the crash, and I hadn’t been in Cain’s body long. Maybe that’s the trick, maybe I don’t need to be scared. I can’t do this if I’m scared and panicking, I know that, I have to stay calm.

I don’t give Cain any warning, since he’s braced and ready. It’s pushing forward into a lack of resistance, wispy bare sensation of pushing a door open at the same time someone’s pulling it. Physical awareness turns from an echo into a roaring cacophony of too many things all at once. Rather than try to fight for understanding, I tumble helplessly into the torrential flow. I won’t struggle, won’t panic, I know I can’t do that. I stay calm. I can do this.

It’s easy, comparatively, and also impossibly hard. I hear the ragged pant of Cain’s breath first, register the lidded darkness is under my control. Awareness of the seat beneath me is pressure to match context. I know where I have to be, besides inside Cain, I’m in the front seat of a car.

_Hey? Abel?_

Tentative, like he’s not even sure where I am. I hope it’s not because he isn’t sure suddenly where he is. I’m not sure I can do this without Cain.

“Yeah.”

Cain’s voice, with my inflections, sounding relieved and sighing, tension going slack from my shoulders. Cain’s shoulders, but they feel like mine. So long as my eyes are closed like this, it’s hard to tell much of a difference. There are a million differences, an infinity of complications and nuances, but I’m not going to focus on them. I’m going to focus on staying perfectly calm.

_Okay. Good. You’re doing great, sweetheart._

I’m not even going to be insulted that he sounds surprised. I draw in a breath and then open my eyes. Looking at my lap is too strange, because it’s Cain’s hands I see, Cain’s denim-clad thigh, that stolen wool coat. I quickly pull my head up, turn toward Phobos.

“Okay. Let’s talk,” I say. “Now I’m Abel.”

He’s wide-eyed, tense, I think it’s rather strange that Phobos would look intimidated considering this was his idea. That should be enough warning, but it isn’t. Neither is the canvas tote being opened, Phobos’ hands hiding in his lap beneath it, none of this is enough warning. It’s only when he lunges forward that I realize this is the trap.

_Shit!_

Cain’s commentary, not helpful, because I think we both panic at the same time. I jerk in the seat trying to do two things at once, one of us wanting to run and one of us wanting to fight. I don’t even know which is which, who is who, what we’ll do. Phobos grabs hold of my arm -- Cain’s arm -- he slaps the handcuff into place. The fact that the handcuffs are pink and fuzzy makes them seem all the more menacing.

I shriek, Phobos yelps, Cain’s silent. Cain’s completely silent.  

“What did you do? What is this?” I wave the handcuff around, feel terrified to touch it even though it’s touching me. Phobos has retreated into the door, gotten out of immediate reach, and I know without Cain needing to tell me that I shouldn’t try leaving the car. The handcuff isn’t attached to anything, he’s left one cuff secured closed but empty.

“Where’s Cain? Cain?” He’s not saying anything, he’s not fighting me for control. I don’t know what to do in this situation so I won’t even fight him actually. I’ll let him take back over, this is his body, we wanted this to be quick.

I round on Phobos with a furious accusation. “You said you wanted to talk!” Cain’s voice is so effective for shouting. I sound so angry. I’m this snarling, furious demon.

“I did. I do,” says Phobos. He’s still wide-eyed, looking like I might explode on him. I feel ready to, maybe I can, I’d rip his pretty face to shreds if it’d make him give me back Cain. Phobos winces a smile at me. “Now we can talk privately.”

“What did you do to Cain?” I demand. “Did you hurt him?”

“No, I didn’t. He’s fine. It’s just a binding,” Phobos says. He stares at me, stares at Cain’s body with me at the controls.

I wonder how different I look -- he looks -- all those hundreds and thousands of uncountable small details. My glare’s a firm line of mouth, narrowed eyes, tightness higher in my forehead and no invading fierce brows. “Undo it. Let him go. Unbind him,” I say. I grab for the handcuff and then yank my hand away with a flinching gasp. It’s a static-shock bite of warning

“Well, that’s part of the plan,” Phobos says. “The new plan. The better plan. I’m going to show up with as much of the truth as possible, because I’m a terrible liar. We’re going to tell Praxis that you’re stuck inside Cain. It’s more or less the same plan, only now it’s more believable. If I showed up with an unbound demon, no one would believe a word I said.”

“You’re taking him prisoner?”

Phobos shrugs. “Yeah, basically. He’s under arrest.”

I flex my left hand, the one handcuffed, and try my best not to think about it being Cain’s hands instead. I have to think of this as my body for now, I have to stay calm. If this starts to hurt Cain, he has no way to tell me. I can’t think about how much I don’t want to do this without Cain telling me how.

“You mean I’m under arrest,” I say. I look at Phobos, narrow my eyes at this snobby, stuck-up monster bossing me around. “I don’t like this plan.”

The slow-churning grind of the garage door announces Phobos’ intent. His head turns to check the clearance before he starts backing out of the narrow space. “It’s a horrible plan,” he agrees. “Did you have a better one?”

I almost tell him to fuck off, just because of how satisfying it will sound with Cain’s rough, snarky scorn. Instead I actually think about it for a moment and then reply, “Yeah. Yeah. I do. Release Cain. I’ll stay in control and we’ll do the Wookie prisoner plan if that’s your genius idea, but if I’m going to occupy Cain’s body then I need him here with me. That’s how it has to be. I cross with Cain, or none of us go.”

Phobos stops halfway out of the garage. He stares at me. “Praxis will know if I start lying too much. I can’t walk in there with an unbound demon.”

“Okay, well, I don’t know what that means.” I cross my arms over my chest. “Release Cain.”

Phobos keeps his hands on the wheel and his foot on the brake. The radio whispers exuberant in the stretching stubborn silence. “How old are you?” he asks me suddenly. “Fifteen? Sixteen?”

I want to lie or ignore him. Instead I warily tell him the truth. “Seventeen. Why? How old are you?”

He smirks, titter softly on a laugh. “Oh, honey. Honey, no. You are so young,” he says. Phobos shakes his head. “How old am I? What kind of --”

“How long have you been on this side? On my side. How long have you been pretending to be human?” I demand. This dumb fairy shouldn’t have told me he was a bad liar. He shouldn’t have gotten himself trapped in a car with a necromancer. I’ve got all these questions stockpiled, and if he wants me to cooperate then he better cooperate back.

“Ah.” Phobos says it such a distinct way that I know I’ve caught him somehow. Until he says, “I’m not pretending to be a human. I’ve just bound your demon, I hang out with a demon hunter and the wizard he’s fucking. I’m not a human. Do you mean this?” He gestures to his clothes, the car, leans forward to gesture beyond the front windshield at the luxurious townhouse. “This? This is hiding in plain sight.”

I resist the urge to look at anything other than Phobos, because now I suspect everything he does and says to be a trap. A lie, somehow, despite what he says about being a terrible liar. “You’re not mortal then, right? Am I? Do I get to live for hundreds of years now, is that part of being a necromancer?”

“Oh, honey,” is what Phobos says. “Your demon’s smart and cruel both if you’re this fucking stupid. You’re a human. If I slashed your throat right now, you’d die. Heart attack in your sleep, hit by a bus, stabbed in a duel, pneumonia, cancer, whatever terrible way, you’ll die one day. Having dominion over the dead certainly makes a lot of those terrible ways less likely, but one of them is happening eventually. Assuming you make it ten, twenty, thirty years -- whatever, you’ll age and wither and fade and die. You’re mortal. You’re human. You’re just, different. Powerful."

“Okay.” I have no idea what else to say to such a direct answer about what I am. I’m almost terrified to see what else Phobos will tell me, so long as we have each other trapped in this car. He’s still straddled half-out of the garage and unmoving, I’m sitting here with my hands in my lap.

The plan can’t move forward unless we agree on what it is. Right now the only thing Phobos and I have agreed on is not to kill each other -- that’s the originally truce I offered. I promised my demon wouldn’t kill him. It’s the only way he’d agree to meet. 

“What does it mean when you say Cain’s bound?”

“I took away his power, silenced him -- he’s deaf, dumb, blind, bound. That’s a binding, he’s bound,” says Phobos. “It’s safer for everyone this way. I’ve bound him inside you, -- or, rather, I’ve restrained him to … himself, so that you are here and not him. For the love of all that is beautiful in this world, must we play twenty questions about this? I am not an encyclopedia. Do you know how to use Google? Just take it with a grain of salt and assume everything is bullshit and you mostly have all the right answers.”

“I looked it up already,” I snap. Harsh, growling baritone sounds so unlike my own, and I try not to think about what Phobos said he’s done to Cain. I can’t think about what Cain might be thinking right now. It’s several deep breaths later before I’m calm enough to try speaking again, before I can be reminded of Cain’s voice shaping my words. I smooth my right hand along my thigh. “How will they know if he’s bound or not?”

“Unbound, his power will be enough to set off the wards Praxis has in place. Abel, do you know what you’ve done?” Phobos’ eyes go over me, head to toe, he looks at every inch of Cain’s body. “You gave him corporeal form. This isn’t a corpse he’s possessing. I can tell that. Praxis will know that. For this plan to have any chance of working, he has to be bound. That’s the way it has to be.”

“You should have told me that in the beginning.”

“Your demon would have never agreed.”

I shake my head. “No. No, you don’t know Cain, he's more reasonable than he seems. You should have told me, you shouldn’t have trapped him like that. If it’s just that his power needs contained, fine. Make it so he can hear me then, so I can hear him. Let him see what I see. Do that first, then if he’s okay with this, we’ll do it. We’ll do this stupid plan.”

It’s the flat way Phobos frowns that tells me I’ve won. I’ve asked for something he can give me, I haven’t made an impossible request.

“You’re taking me with you to the Otherside.”

“I said I would. I meant it. I have no reason not to, right? That’s where you’re from originally, so if you want to go back there, fine. Get out of my world. If necromancers are humans, then that makes you and Deimos monsters. You said you killed --”

“I said Deimos killed,” Phobos corrects me. He holds up a slim finger. “Deimos killed. I merely did the navigating and driving, some mild assistance with the disposal. And, I’m happy to leave. Good riddance to your beautiful world.”

When he reaches for the handcuffs, I hold my hand out a little. Phobos picks up the locked empty cuff and then glances at me. “He’s going to be angry.”

“I know.”

He hesitates. “Deimos is right in trying to kill you. If you think he’s a monster, how many humans do you think your demon has killed?”

“So far none,” I reply. “Now release Cain.”

Phobos’ smile is the least friendly one I’ve seen so far. “Let me know if you change your mind,” he says. He snaps open the lock on the cuff. He leaves the other wrap of pink fluff around my wrist, but the empty end dangles free.

I settle my hands into my lap and wait. I can’t tell if anything’s different. I lift my gaze from my lap to look out the front windshield, the side window, but it’s dark. I turn instead to look at Phobos. “Did it work?” I ask him. “Does Cain hear me now? Can he see?”

“Yes." Phobos' response gets drowned into Cain's, swiftly following.   

_Yeah. Yeah, Abel, fuck -- sweetheart --_

“I’m fine. It’s fine.” My reassurances growling in his voice. “I’m okay, I’m okay, Cain. I asked Phobos to do this for you, but, he says you can’t --”

_No, fuck that, no --_

“Cain, please, let me finish. Everything’s okay just calm down. Phobos told me the new plan. I haven’t agreed to anything yet, we’re still talking about what’s going to happen. No one’s going anywhere until I say so, okay?” I nod my head at Phobos until he starts to nod as well. “Put the car in park.”

Phobos does so, one perfectly-plucked eyebrow raised.

“Okay, then,” I say. “Okay. I want to talk to Cain privately.”

“No.” Phobos laughs at the same time, stammers further, “N-no way, you’re staying. Nuh-uh, honey, no way.” He shakes his head at me, grabs for the gear shift. Before I make up my mind about stopping him, he sets the car into reverse and keeps going, clears the garage entirely.

“I’m sorry, Cain. He says it has to be this way. I don’t think he’s lying. Or, at least, that --”

_Abel, stop. It's fine._

It’s abrupt and clipped, but there’s no inflection or much of a tone to it. He sounded frantic earlier only because of the swiftness, the rushed quality. He’s as hollow and empty as the dangling cuff now nestled in my lap. Cain’s lap. I swallow and have to look anywhere else, out the dark window and then my reflection. Cain, looking back at me, so that I flinch my eyes closed.

“How much more can you release Cain?” I open my eyes and look to Phobos. “What else can you give him?”

_Sweetheart, it’s fine._

I don’t think it’s fine at all, because I don’t like the way Cain sounds. I don’t like this empty voice, because I can’t tell what he means. If he’s hurt, if I’m annoying him or amusing him, if he likes me or hates me or just even if he’s okay. I don’t think he is. I’m sure this must be terrifying. I certainly think it’s terrifying.

Phobos wavers a frown at me. “We are wasting valuable time. None of us want Deimos trying to stop this, so we need to leave. I’ll remove the binding once we’re in the center. Until then it stays in place. Praxis will know otherwise, there’s no other way. You don’t need his permission, Abel. You’re a necromancer, aren’t you? Pull the leash tight on your demon already."

“Hold on,” I tell Phobos. “That’s not fair.”

Phobos blows out an exasperated breath as he jabs the automated door for the garage closed. “Yeah, honey, life’s not fair.”


	23. Chapter 23

Given the size of the SUV, it’s no surprise Phobos circles the block several times looking for a spot to park. I find it suspicious anyway, I find everything that he does suspicious. He trapped Cain, didn’t exactly lie about anything that I can tell, but I don’t know. I don’t know what might happen, if Phobos can be trusted, if anything about this situation can be trusted.

“What happens if Deimos shows up?” I ask. “I can’t fight him. Cain needs to do that.”

Phobos’ shoulders lift without his gaze breaking from an intense scan of the cars lining the street. He slows for a gap and frowns at the sight of a fire hydrant. “If Deimos shows up the whole plan’s off anyway. Praxis won’t go along with anything after that.”

“Will you release Cain? If Deimos shows up.”

Phobos turns his head to check his mirrors. He’s wedging the massive vehicle into the open spot regardless of the fire hydrant. “I suppose so. I’ll try,” he says. “Assuming our original deal’s still good.”

_Tell him I’ll rip his pretty blond head from --_

“Original deal’s still good when you release Cain. He won’t kill you. I’ll make sure of it.” It’s hard to talk over the echo of words in my head, somewhat easier because they don’t sound as much like Cain. I have his voice now, it’s mine to use, his rumbling snarl shapes everything I say. Cain has only a flat, hollow nothing to use inside his own head.

“How reassuring,” mutters Phobos. The hard spin of the wheel seems a practiced gesture, a well-honed understanding of the angles and trajectories involved in squeezing the oversized SUV into parallel impossibility. He cuts the engine and then reaches around to grab the tote out of the backseat. I wait for the locks to pop open before trying to exit the vehicle.  

“I’m sorry about this,” I whisper. Maybe it’s soft enough Phobos won’t hear, since the car is between us. I step onto the sidewalk and fold my arms against the cold. I’m so quiet that I’m just mouthing the words almost. “Cain? Are you okay?”

_Yeah._

Which tells me he’s not. I want to ask what’s wrong, but I already know what’s wrong. I guess I’m not okay either, so I’m not even sure why I asked. I know this isn’t okay. Nothing about this is okay.

Phobos joins me on the sidewalk and pulls a fat piece of yellow sidewalk chalk from the tote. He kneels beside the fire hydrant.

“What are you doing?”

“Avoiding a parking ticket,” he replies. Self-assured strokes produce impeccably straight lines, gently sweeping curves, I have no idea what he’s drawing but I can guess. When he straightens, a complicated circle of symbols surrounds the hydrant. A trio of straight lines burst from the bottom of the ring to point toward the curb.

I don’t see anything different. I still see an illegally parked SUV with only inches of clearance in front and behind. I suppose I don’t see anything different because I am different. Human, but different. Powerful, somehow, even though I don’t feel like it. I just feel scared as I follow Phobos along the dark, empty streets.

At the mouth of the alley, Phobos pauses. He turns to face me and has to tilt his head up slightly -- Cain is taller than him. I’m trying not to think about everything being several inches elevated, about the strangeness Cain’s boots marching to the tempo of my stride.

“Okay,” he says. “I’m going to say a bunch of stuff you might not like, but that’s part of the plan. I have to convince Praxis, or this will never work. Let me do all the talking.”

Silence fills the space between us only because I’m waiting for Cain. I’m sure he’s silent because he’s waiting for me. Neither of us is okay, neither of us likes this plan, but neither of us could think of anything better. This is a miserable situation.

“Sure,” I say. The urge to add _why not?_ to the end is overwhelming.

Phobos turns his head, looks back at the dark street and the line of parked cars. His expression is pensive, worried, I’d feel a lot better about this if one of us felt confident. I guess that needs to be me, then. I wonder if being a necromancer -- a human -- makes me somehow more powerful than all these monsters from the Otherside. This is my world, after all.

Somehow I don’t think that’s the case, as I follow Phobos to the rust-hinged steel door. I don’t think fairies and wizards and demon hunters count as dead things. My powers are over dead things. I’d need to kill one of them first, and I’m not even sure that’s possible. I’m pretty sure Phobos just tried to explain to me he’s immortal, ageless, he laughed when I tried to ask how old he is.

“Stand here,” Phobos says. He snaps and points to the ground beside him. I’ll give him a pass on being rude, considering how scared he looks.

_Abel._

“Okay.” It’s an answer that works for both of them, as I stand beside and just slightly behind Phobos.

_Abel, he’s going to --_

“I need to put the other handcuff on you.” Phobos speaks calmly into the frantic overlap of Cain’s warning. “It’ll be temporary.”

I lift my hands and look at them. I let Cain get a good look at the dangerous pink fluff, the linked metal chain letting that empty cuff dangle. “Okay?”

_No._

Phobos reaches, but I yank my hands down before he has a chance. I shove my hands into the coat pockets and take a quick step in retreat. “Cain says no.”

Phobos whispers, “We’re wasting time again. Praxis already knows we’re here, he’s not going to open the door unless --”

The well-timed interruption to prove him wrong is either a relief or a sign of disaster. A sliver of darkness appears. Phobos whirls to greet it with a big smile. “Hello!”

A heavy chain crosses the slim span of the opened door. “What is this?” demands a deep, husky voice. The warm tones are sharp, alert, but not overly hostile.

“A long story,” says Phobos. “May we come in?” The friendly tone comes across as suspicious. I’m in on the plan, and I think Phobos sounds suspicious.

“You may not,” Praxis replies.

“I can bind the necromancer as well. The demon’s already been taken care of, see?” A white knit glove flaps in my direction. His tone turns pleading, his smile sweetens. “I need your help.”

The cracked-open darkness doesn’t waver. “Where is Deimos?”

“Elsewhere. Not here. He doesn’t know I’m doing this. You know how he is.” Phobos shrugs, keeps smiling in that same offensively friendly way that is so suspicious to me. “A simple banishment, that’s all I want. I’ll be in and out. You don’t have to tell Deimos.”

“Yet I will.” The door eases shut enough for the chain to slide free. When it opens again, Phobos steps back to wave me through first. I don’t like that, but I do it anyway.

An oppressive waft of melting wax and incense greets me. Candles dance light and shadows into the curtained entry, and it feels like walking into a horror movie set. If Phobos referred to his place as hiding in plain sight, then Praxis’ place is stark contrast to that. 

Once I’m inside, the steel door closes. Ominously with Phobos on the other side of it, so I hear the burst of his frantic, “Wait!” and then nothing else. I’m not sure if that means he’s in the alley shouting or not. The quiet calm of the dim, smoky room drowns out all other sounds except my own quick breaths and thudding heartbeat. Staying calm isn’t happening anymore for me, there’s just no way to manage it.

I could run for the curtain, try to run up the stairs, try to get myself into the center of that pentagram before Praxis tries to stop me. I could do that, but I don’t. Cain’s body stands there with me panicking away inside it, Cain himself silent so it panics me further, makes it so I start looking around at everything.

Praxis watches, arms folded and back straight, shoulders stiff. His weight’s cocked in such a way that I’m glad I didn’t try running. “Abel?” Uncertain, perhaps wary, with a steady frown pulling at the line the patch cuts across his forehead.

My head bobs up and down. Phobos wanted to do the talking. Explaining what happened, what we need to do, that was his part of the plan.

“Ach, what a mess.” His sigh holds a note of amusement, perhaps fondness for something. Maybe he likes messes. Maybe he’s going to help me. I peek sideways at the door, unsure what it means that Phobos isn’t part of this anymore.

_Tell him to do the banishment._

My reaction to Cain’s sudden announcement is an obvious splash of surprise, an incredulous, “Without Phobos?”

_Yeah._

“Can he be trusted?” I nod my head at Praxis, who doesn’t seem to mind the conversation I’m having right in front of him. He’s got a patient air of waiting to see what happens, a nonchalance that worries me as much as it reassures me. I’ve got the answer to my own question, I think, based solely off how unconcerned Praxis seems. I’ll take my chances with anyone who wants to approach this situation calmly.

_Who the fuck knows._

Cain’s agreeing with me, I think, it’s hard without hearing how he feels about what he says. I nod anyway to acknowledge him. “I need a banishment,” I say to Praxis. “Will you help me?”

A dark brow raises, a dark gaze judges me with lopsided strength. Even the patch seems surprised, that black swath of mystery seeming to stare right at me. “You do not know what you ask.”

“You’re right. I don’t. I know that, but my body is somewhere on the Otherside. Whatever it takes for me to get it back, that’s what I want to do. So, if that’s a banishment, that’s what I want. If it’s another exorcism, that’s what I want. I want my body back.” I say. In Cain’s voice, but I’m sure it’s a sentiment he agrees with. Unlike what I say next, which is, “Please. Please, you have to help me.”

“Have to? No. I do not.” A slight smile softens the denial. “Yet I will.”

“You will? Thank you!” Without thinking, I react exactly like I want to react. As if this were my body -- as if what I’m doing would be wanted, like there’s not a binding spell around my wrist. I move forward and throw my arms around someone willing to help me, someone who knows how to help me.

The height’s all wrong. Those several extra inches make this extremely awkward. The fact that I’ve just used a demon’s body to deliver this hug makes it extremely awkward. That I’ve still got my arms squeezed around this shock-stiff wizard makes everything so horrible. 

_The fuck._

I release Praxis, jump back. I lift my hands to my face, cover my mouth in horror for the strangled expression on Praxis’ face. “Sorry!”

His head shakes. “Ach, you are young.” Praxis turns and pulls aside the curtain. He gestures to the stairs. “Go, then. If you are certain.”

I look to the door again. I wonder if Phobos is outside in the alley or if he already left. I promised Phobos I’d take him with me to the Otherside -- if I could. If I don’t explain that to Praxis, then am I technically following through on my word? If I go up these stairs without Phobos, if I get into the center of that pentagram without him, then I can’t bring him with me. I only said I’d do it if I could. I never said I’d make sure it happened. I only said I’d make sure Cain wouldn’t kill him, because I was reasonably certain I could do that.

I count the landings as I think about if I’m certain about this. I’m not especially certain about anything other than … Cain, I guess. That makes as much sense as anything. When I turn from the third floor for the fourth, I’m reminded of the first time I did this.

Then I felt desperate to make everything stop. I wanted my normal life back, but I’m not normal. I’m different. I didn’t understand that at the time, and Praxis tried to warn me. He gave me a lot of warnings. I’m not sure I followed any of them. I listened to the voice calling for me. I gave that voice a name, gave it a body, no wonder everyone’s referring to Cain as my demon.

When it’s time to brush aside the curtain, I’m ready. I’m certain this is what I want to do -- right now in this moment, perhaps for the rest of my life. I’m not going to run anymore from being whatever it is that I am. I’m going to be the best at it. Dartmouth, MIT, CalTech, if all my other options at excelling are gone, then I’ll excel at this. Whatever this is.

Praxis joins me in the room without shadows. Ruddy, dark stains outline the star and circle of the pentagram, everything in the room looks the same as when I first saw it.

“The center?” I ask.

An insolent smile spreads beneath the eye patch. “The center,” he agrees.

The slip of the smile from my face matches the slow sink of my heart. This feels as much of a trap suddenly as the locked car doors, white gloved hands clutching the strap to a canvas tote. My gaze flicks to the curtain.

_Do what he says. He’s not going to hurt you._

Cain’s voice is mine now, but these words are supposed to be his even if they don’t sound like it. I hold up my hands to stare at the pink handcuffs. “I need this removed. Phobos said he’d remove it before we crossed.” I look up to find Praxis watching. He’s standing next to the table. He’s holding the knife.

I take a step back and have to glance down quickly to make sure I’m not crossing one of the lines on the floor. I retreat along the outside curve of the massive circle. “Are you going to remove the binding?”

“Go to the center,” Praxis commands quietly.

It’s his serious expression, how he maybe looks reluctant now that I look scared. This is such a trap. Everyone knows it, I’m sure we’re all aware of how much this is a trap. Cain knows it, he’s telling me just to go along with it. I let him walk into this powerless. He can’t fight anything for me.

_Abel, it’s fine. You’re close, go for it._

Soon as I step into the circle, a pull directs me to the exact center. I walk along one slanted line to reach it as if on a tightrope, deliberate heel-into-toe steps. My heart -- Cain’s heart -- pumps a loud and strong terror into the moment. My feet come together, I turn on a precise point to face Praxis. I lock into place, immobile as Cain trapped between the glass doors of the mall. The empty handcuff dangles against my thigh as I stand there, hands to my side, shoulders square.

I should have delayed longer. I should have told Cain yet again how sorry I am for having gotten us into this mess. I should have insisted Phobos remove the binding entirely. Praxis approaches holding the knife, and my fear vanishes. My panicked thoughts fade. My attention focuses as I’m caught up in the spell unfolding.

“Are you certain this desire is one you want granted?” he asks. He does not cross the circle. Prowling steps take him around the outside curve

Vibration pulls Cain’s voice from me. “Yes.”

Praxis continues along the circle and my awareness follows. My eyes do not, my head does not. I stay perfectly still, don’t move at all. He turns on the point of the star and comes forward.

_Had a good run, kid._

Praxis comes to a halt in front of me. His hand lifts.

_Fun while it lasted._

The knife descends in a gleaming streak of silver. No pain, no fear, only awareness and then nothing. Darkness, and fading, a glimmering sense of being enveloped in oblivion like rolling into a cozy bed. A separation, hollow and empty, anticipated resistance but nothing, all this nothing, not even a goodbye.


	24. Chapter 24

I’m something enough for thoughts and feelings, only I don’t know what to think or how to feel. Sluggish confusion slowly trickles details and memories into the void. I recall the back and forth click of a turn signal, the dull tapping rhythm of fingers on a steering wheel. I remember a deep growling voice, the slap of water over my face and a buoyant feeling.

More things, all these things, a bridge of wasted space and the lilting cadence of arguments, NASA posters, a firefighter’s picture-perfect smile, my memories. My life. Who I am, the things I think about, how I feel about things, my thoughts about my feelings, everything of substance that forms who I am becomes mine.

This lidded darkness is mine. My eyes are closed. I’m lying somewhere in a face-up sprawl. I’m in my body, but don’t I remember why I shouldn’t be, why this is strange. I think I know where I am, yet I have no idea where I am. I think I know what’s happening. I have no idea what’s happened. There’s still so much that I’m missing, but I found my body.

I open my eyes. An eye stares back. One eye, dangling on a red cord, a rounded white orb with a glazed dark center. A bright spot of color in a black and white world lacking substance, the shadow-on-shadow impossibility of the Otherside. It stretches above and around what part of my vision isn’t being taken up by this dangling eyeball, the fearsome red socket, a mottled ruin of broken skin that comprises a dead woman’s half-crushed face leaning over me. A scream tears from my throat. I kick and claw at nothing, wispy insubstantial nothing that resists enough I scoot backward.

Remembering how to use my body complicates matters, trying to think about what I’m doing complicates matters. Thinking I need to stay calm reminds me of Cain. Of a knife descending.

The kneeling dead woman turns her head to track my backward motion. She moves slow, glacial, eerily unconcerned and half-aware. Long auburn curls spiral around the bashed-in destruction that used to be her face. By the twisted, bloodied knob of her arm and jutting bone from her leg, I’m guessing she died in a car accident.

“Cain! Cain, I’m awake!”

A lack of heart-thudding, breathless reality leaves me standing there watching her in ways that seem calm, even though I’m screaming for Cain. He crossed with me, that was the plan, so I need him here to handle this dead thing.

“Cain?” I retreat from the dead woman’s lackluster effort at chasing me. She’s managing a crawl. Bright crimson paints blooms into the floral pattern of her dress. She might have been pretty, before.

Besides my own terrified shouting I think I hear something else. Whispering, or the wind, except the air is perfectly still. This burned to ash ruin of a world calls and moans. The dead woman seems to moan. Her mouth is a slacked-open horror. It wobbles nonsense in dead-sounding tones.

I cup my hands like a megaphone. “CAIN!”

If I had breath I’d be sobbing. I back away further from the dead thing that’s found me. I hold out my hands to check the length of heather-grey sweatshirt and slim, pale fingers peeking out from the end of the sleeves. I poke my tongue into my numbed knot of scar tissue on my lip. I feel at my face and hair, I look down at my jeans, my sneakers, this is definitely my body and not Cain’s.

A few shuffling steps get me further away from the dead woman. I’m not sure if she’s trying to talk to me or if that’s just the noise dead things make on the Otherside. I’ve never been here without Cain, he found me after the exorcism and had hold of me when I obliterated that motorcyclist. I thought he’d be here for this. I thought we’d cross together. I can’t do this without Cain. Racing panic loops my thoughts in tight circle of how Cain’s not here, I was with Cain and now I’m not, I don’t know what’s happening without Cain to explain it. Not that he’s ever explained much.

Thinking of how little Cain’s explained reminds me of my outburst, how I told Cain I hated him. Wildly I consider the possibility he’s ignoring me, but I don’t think that’s the case. I don’t think that’s what’s happened here, but I’m thinking so carefully about those last moments we had together and how it seemed like a goodbye. Cain knew this would happen. I have no doubt that Cain knew this would happen, whatever this terrible unfolding disaster is that’s left me stranded without him.

Or, him without me, I realize. I left him. I left his body to find mine, and now Cain can’t find me. The stupid binding, those handcuffs, whatever power let Cain find me before he can’t use now. He can’t do anything. Phobos described it as deaf, dumb, blind, bound -- Cain’s trapped, that must be the explanation. He’s trapped somewhere. I desperately don’t want to think of Cain trapped and helpless, even though he must be. Stomach-sinking certainty tells me that’s the meaning behind Cain’s silent answer to my desperate calls.

Knowing what’s happened fills me with calm, even though I’m still lost on what to do about it. At least I have some understanding of the situation. Wandering around the immediate vicinity provides a little more understanding, but not much.

I decide to assume this desolate crossroads of shadow is where the wreck took place. That fits with my understanding of things, it fits with what I’ve seen so far. The Otherside is the dark, twisted mirror of my world, a ruined-ash shadow devoid of color and substance besides myself and the dead woman. As I cautiously explore the intersection, it becomes easier to denote the separation between the grey, hazy shadow-shapes.

I arrive back where I started, in front of the dead woman. “I don’t suppose you can actually talk, and not just moan?”

An insensible zombie-quality slur forms my response. She drags her ruined body closer to me as if magnetized, no matter where I stand. She seems ready to chase me in circles, if I let her. I recall Cain referring to me as a beacon for anything feeling ambitious during my first visit to the Otherside. I guess this dead woman’s ambition lead her to me. I wonder if she died in this same intersection, or if she crawled here from somewhere else.

I don’t want to think about how long my body lay limp and vacant, why this dead woman may have been lured to it or why she’s still eager to get hold of me. I’m trying my best to ignore the lifted whispers calling to me, because none of them sound like Cain.

“Sorry. I’d help you if I could,” I tell the dead woman. “But I need to find my demon. I don’t suppose you know where he is?”

Her shattered jaw quivers, same as the dangling eye, as she drags herself forward.

I tuck my hands into the front pouch on my sweatshirt. “You remind me a lot of a zombie. I hope you’re not trying to eat my brain. Although, if you were trying to crawl into my body, I guess that kind of is like eating my brain. I hope you weren’t trying to do that, though. You seem like a nice enough dead thing.”

Talking to this dead woman isn’t helpful. I know that, but I do it anyway. I’m not sure what else to do, besides leave, but that’s terrifying. I know where this place is, in some small degree. I’m not sure which direction to walk without knowing the names of the streets or being able to see any of the landmarks. I can’t navigate blind like this.

Except I’m not blind, I can see all this hazy dark nothing of the Otherside. I might not see much, but I see something. If I get close and focus I can tell the difference between curb and street. I can tell the difference between the terrifying upward abyss of the sky and the jutting overhead shape of the street lights against it. As I stand there staring up at a void without any stars or glimmer of moonlight, I think of Cain watching the sunrise.

“Where am I?” I whisper. To myself, of course, because the dead woman’s not going to have an answer and there’s no voice inside my head listening anymore. I’m all alone.

Or so I think. Until a voice replies nicely, “I have no idea, sorry.”

I whip my head around at the dead woman in silent accusation. That’s a familiar voice, though, sometimes maybe boyish tenor memory but definitely not a feminine one. And these are such distinctly shaped sounds instead of the zombie-dead babble she’s been giving me so far.

Slowly I scan each surrounding shadow. “Where are you?” I use the same to-myself-hush, hoping for another response.

“Definitely no idea,” the voice replies. “I hope I’m not dead.”

If this weren’t the Otherside, my reaction would be a lot of sweaty-palmed, heart-pounding breathless terror. I still get to feel all that, but my body is a perfectly calm vessel to carry me forward. I step cautiously, eyes on the ground.

“Can you hear me?” I ask.

“Um, yeah. Why wouldn’t I?”

I know who I’m talking to, but it’s the strangest thing where I’m not sure I actually do know who I’m talking to. I can’t think of the name. I can’t think of the face this voice belongs to, what the body looks like that shapes it. I recognize the voice, but I don’t understand this. I can’t think of his name, what to call him.

“Where are you?” Desperate now, even though I think I’m getting closer.

“I really have no idea, I’m sorry. Let me know if you figure it out though, okay?”

This is so not okay. The dead woman’s been crawling around the spot where I woke up, and I can’t get back to that same spot without getting within reach of her.

“Get out of my way,” I tell the dead woman. I point across the intersection like commanding a dog. “Go. Get. Crawl faster that way.”

She comes toward me instead with that same stubborn, relentless, snail-paced determination. A terrible fury born of frustration and fear grips me. “Get out of my way!”

I burst toward her and snatch a fistful of curly auburn _something_. The slippery-soft feel of hair tangling into my fingers is a visceral shock. Without thinking I tug -- yank, really, like whisking a sheet off a surprise. The dead woman vanishes. She wisps into shreds of nothing with a soft murmured regret that barely stirs any memories. I don’t know anything about her other than her ugly dead body in my way. My impression of her fades almost immediately, so that I doubt I even had one to begin with. I’m just glad she’s gone.

I take her place crawling on my hands and knees like searching for a dropped contact. I carefully sweep my fingers until I feel resistence. “Is this you? This is you, I found you --” Excitedly I feel further at the firm bit of shadow I’ve found, and my exploring hands shape the darkness like molding clay. “I’m so glad you’re here! You missed so much, it’s crazy, you won’t believe what’s happened --”

Little reminders, like bubbles popping, my enthusiasm deflating as I think about the back-and-forth click of a turn signal, fingers tapping on the steering wheel, blood streaming a stark crimson mask over a slacked round face. I think of seances and ouija boards and waiting scared in an alley after delivering a letter. I think of why this voice won’t think I’m crazy, but yet I still can’t name this person I know. I found my best friend, and I have no idea who he is.

That’s impossible. This is so many degrees of impossible that I sit back on my heels to stare at this shadow that’s getting upright to stare at me. The burnt-ash ruin that’s meant to be the street separates into the outlined body I felt at and shaped. Roughly my size, thicker in the limbs and chest, this person I’ve known since the third grade and can’t even name. I saw him nearly every day of my life after meeting him, I have no idea what to call him.

I grip my hands into my hair. That seems the safest place to put them. I’m suddenly horrified about what I might have done, if maybe I wasn’t supposed to do that. I shouldn’t have started talking back to voices calling to me. I learned my lesson already with Cain.

This shadowed friend of mine turns his head. I can only tell by the arrangement of hazy charcoal limbs that he’s facing me and looking around, or I suddenly hope that’s what he’s able to do. I can’t see any eyes, not a lick of color or light, no pale freckles, not a single white-blond curl.

“Oh, wow. Ethan?” he asks.

It blurts right out of me. “You know my name? You know who I am?”

“Well… yeah,” he says, sounding confused. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Which is the right way to be thinking, that’s the way to approach this, what’s wrong with me instead of what’s wrong with him. A lot’s wrong with him, if I dug the smoky insubstantial shadow of him out of the place where the old sedan rumbled its last. Why isn’t he like the dead woman, flesh-toned and bloodied?

“Maybe you’re not dead,” I say.

“Oh, that’d be nice,” he says. As if I’ve offered to buy him lunch.

The dreamy unconcern of even the way he remarked on recognizing me, it all reminds me of that motorcyclist. It’s better than the zombiesque moans from the dead woman or warbling nonsense I’ve gotten from speaking shadows before. Maybe it’s worse, because he should be scared we’re talking like this.

“Can you stand?” Sitting, it’s hard to confirm that I shaped the legs of him correctly. I stand so this shadowed friend of mine does as well, and it’s easier to tell what’s him and what’s the Otherside.

“Did something happen?” he asks. His head turns again with a disorienting lack of context besides motion to shape the gesture. “Where’s my car?”

“There was a wreck. Do you remember that? Do you remember me?”

“Yeah, I remember you,” he says. “You’re Ethan. I have a lot of memories of you.”

It’s a tickling lack of breath to catch, a lack of tears to shed, a lack of heart to break. “Yeah. I have a lot of memories of you, too.” And despite all these memories he might as well be a stranger, if I can’t think of his name.

Then suddenly I have my answer, my explanation, because I’m thinking of the first time we met. I went to the very beginning of our friendship, that moment I met him, and there’s my answer why I’m coming up blank on his identity. I smiled and threw out a friendly, _Hi, I’m Ethan!_ only to get timid, fearful silence in return. His mother had to tell me his name. She told me what to call him. He was too shy for introductions.

But that’s crazy, that’s completely crazy, that makes just as much sense as everything else. Cain listened to people talking about me by name, calling me by name, and still had to ask. I’m pretty sure I heard Cain say Deimos’ name, back at the crash, actually, because now I’m thinking of Cain shouting that word I couldn’t understand while inside his head.

I’m trying to make sense of all these impossibilities without making progress on my goal. I need to get that binding off Cain. I need to find him, or Phobos, I’m not sure which first. I don’t even know where I am.

“What else do you remember?” I ask. “Do you know where we are?”

“Um,” my friend says. He’s not used to answering questions, since I usually decide things. His midnight on moonlight head turns against the shadowy world around him. “Forty-second and Union.”

I turn as well to look up at the street sign, which is where he found the answer for me. “Okay. Well, I need to find Cain, so… Which direction is north?”

“Um.” He starts to walk closer to the sign for a better look, and I follow closely. I’m concerned if I let him out of my sight, I’ll have to find him again by feel. It’s almost impossible for me to tell where anything is, which shadows are something and which are simply dark nothing.

“Let me hold your hand,” I say.

“Okay.” His hand takes mine in a warm, familiar clasp. With his other hand he points. “This way is north. Did you want to go that way?”

“Yeah. I think so. The place where I took the letter, that’s where I want to go. Do you remember how to get there from here?” If I had breath to hold, I would. Instead I hold his hand and wait for the answer I know he can give me.

“Oh, yeah. Sure, I can take you.” I bet anything he’s smiling, even though I can’t see his face. “Do you know where I parked the car though? Also where are my keys? Did you say I was dead?”

“Nope.” I’m quick with it, because the last thing I want to do is start an argument with my best friend about if he’s dead or not. “Nope, I didn’t say that. I don’t think you’re dead.”

“Oh, good,” he says.

Scary as it is for him not to sound worried, I'm glad he's so unconcerned about things. “Your car’s not here. It, um, it’s somewhere else. We can walk though. Okay?” 

This friendly shadow nods agreeably. “Okay.”

He leads me into the endless darkness with the confident air of knowing precisely where he’s going, and I keep a tight hold of his hand. The last thing I want to do is lose my best friend, now that I’ve found him.


	25. Chapter 25

“Do you think it’s locked?”

My hand clenches around the warmth of his. “Yes, and don’t touch it. Stay here with me, okay?”

His shadowed head turns to me, so I know it’s an invisible smile shaping the way he easily agrees. “Okay.”

The bewildering stretch of darkness in either direction provides little context, but I’m confident he’s lead me in the right direction. Proof exists in the hulking SUV that gleams like an onyx in the eternal nighttime of the Otherside. A bright circle of symbols glows and flickers beside it, a small bonfire to illuminate the scene and give it substance.

“Is this your car? I didn’t think you had a car. Did you buy a car?”

“No, it’s not my car. Let’s whisper though, okay?” I keep my voice low, keep a firm hold of his hand.

“Okay.” Pressure and gentle heat forms the sensation of him squeezing my hand. “Are you scared?” Gentle concern fills the words, he’s worried about me. My potentially dead best friend whose name I don’t know, he’s worried about me.

“A little,” I admit.

“Don’t be,” he says. I get another reassuring squeeze. “I’ll keep you safe.”

I have no idea how he plans to do that, being made of shadow that I shaped from memory, but it’s such a nice sentiment. He sounds so matter-of-fact, so honest and earnest. Bodyguard, chauffeur, attack dog, lifeguard and ladder, my guide through this nightmarish netherworld -- “Was I a good friend to you?”

“The best,” he replies. He seems surprised that I’d ask, even after everything.  

“I bossed you around all the time. I made you drive me everywhere, I dragged you everywhere. I oogled you at the pool. I went totally crazy on you. I became a monster. I got you --” I won’t say _killed_ because I can’t think like that, not while I’m holding his hand. “I ruined your life.”

The outline of his head shakes back and forth against the darkness. “No way,” he says. “I know you get sad sometimes, Ethan, but please don’t think that. You didn’t ruin my life.”

This isn’t an argument I want to have with him, not now, perhaps not ever. I look along the dark oblivion that’s supposedly a street of parked cars. We’re wasting time, and I know it. I’ve made us stand here staring at Phobos’ clever means to avoid a parking ticket because I’m scared this means he’s here, that this is part of the trap somehow. That perhaps the whole scheme was a lie, beginning to end, because how could Phobos park his car on the Otherside and need my help crossing? I’m too scared to touch the car to find out if it’s solid or if I’ll wisp through it.

“Ethan? You okay?”

“Yeah.” I look to him. “Yeah, I’m okay. Let’s, um --”

“There’s someone coming,” he says.

Not so unconcerned anymore, not so dreamy-sounding or unfocused, and he tugs me close. The hand with me attached goes behind his back, the other extends to the side like he intends to summon a weapon into it. For a half-second I wonder if he will, if I haven’t inadvertently created a monster to help me negotiate the unknown terrors of the Otherside. Instead I realize he’s just making sure I stay behind him, that he’s ready to push me back if I step forward.

Ahead of us is a swift overlay of motion, a shadow-on-shadow movement I have a hard time understanding or seeing. I try to track the roughly Phobos-shaped darkness approaching. “Does he notice you? Can he see you?”

“I don’t think so,” my friend replies. “He’s not looking this way at all.”

Trusting Phobos got me into this mess, either inadvertently or intentionally. He trapped Cain, but he was also terrified of Cain -- it was obvious, trying to convince him to meet, that he genuinely was frightened of getting near Cain. Cain’s dangerous, obviously as a demon he’s something dangerous. I know all too well how strong he is, how tough he is, how eager and capable he is of fighting anything he needs to fight.

The SUV’s headlights flash without extending cutting beams into the darkness. In the sterile qualm of the Otherside, the vehicular beast is utterly silent, but I can tell anyway that Phobos has activated the remote start. The driver’s side door opens.

I raise my voice to call, “Phobos!”

The car door closes. A rush of motion cuts in front of the gleaming SUV. With substance behind him and the flickering light of the spell circle to give contrast, Phobos is a distinctly anxious shadow. His steps are light, frantic, his head turns with chest-heaving quickness.

“Phobos,” I call again. “Phobos, can you hear me?”

Warbled nonsense bursts in a tenor-pitched, breathless frenzy. His hand cautiously extends and sweeps the empty air. The gesture pulls close as he takes a step in retreat, tone turning questioning. I think I’m frightening him, or something already has, because he turns to flee. He scurries around the front of the vehicle. The driver’s side door opens, closes. A moment later the passenger side door pops open a few inches.

“Are we getting in?” my friend asks. “He says to hurry.”

“You understand him?”

“Um, yeah?” I’ve confused him with the question. “A little. Maybe, no, I’m sorry -- I’m not sure what he means but --”

By the severe volume and short intensity, I can hazard some guesses at what Phobos shouts. The urgency is obvious and somewhere firmly on the spectrum of reassuring to suspicious.

“Don’t touch anything yet,” I warn my friend. I slip around from behind him and tentatively approach the cracked open door. The cold metal resists the brush of my fingertips less than it should but still more than I expect. I pull the door open enough to look into the colorful interior of the vehicle. The vegetable-splashed design of the canvas tote sitting in the passenger seat, the pink fuzzy dice and baubles dangling from the rearview mirror, and even Phobos -- wide-eyed, pale, pretty and blond, stylish navy pea coat, white scarf.

I jerk my head back to check that the shadow-on-shadow reality of the Otherside still exists outside the car. My friend stands beside me with a patient air of waiting to see what I decide, if we’re taking the offered ride or not.

I peek through the cracked door again, so that Phobos’ fearful, wide-eyed gaze focuses. He lets out a held breath. “Get in the car,” he says. Each sound distinct, each word comprehensible.

“What about my friend? Will he be okay? Why can I see your car? How can I see you? How come I can understand you?”

“Magic, Abel, it’s all fucking magic -- please get in the car,” Phobos says. The pleasant twist of his smile seems stilted and forced, but there’s genuine fear in the way he stares past me. Almost like he can see me, mostly like he can’t.

“Unlock the back. I’ll sit there with my friend.”

After a delay he says, “You’re being serious. You made a friend. How quaint.” Phobos lurches forward to awkwardly crawl over the console. I close the passenger door and then wait for the back door on the SUV to pop open instead.  

I carefully guide my shadowed friend to the vehicle. “Go slow,” I warn him. “Keep hold of me, okay? Don’t let go.”

Phobos withdraws into the driver’s seat. Much as I want to keep an eye on him, I focus instead on making sure my friend’s capable of getting inside the vehicle. I’m terrified he might vanish in the light like a true shadow, but as he steps onto the silvery streak of the running board it’s nothing but obliterating darkness to shape him.

An uncomfortable half-crouched shuffle gets us both into the SUV. He scoots into the middle of the second row bench seats, and I use the opportunity to check out the folded-flat third row of seating in the large cargo hold. It’s empty, just a wire kennel taking up space. No sign of Deimos anywhere, which I suspected but wanted to confirm anyway.

Phobos flicks a curious, unfocused look over the shadow-occupied space next to me. Our tightly clasped hands rest on top of our pressed together thighs, because if I were sitting any closer I’d just be in his lap. The thought’s tempting.

“The plan didn’t work at all,” I say.

“It was a dumb plan,” he agrees. “Most of mine usually are.” A soft, pretty sigh escapes him, something light and airy like spring breeze. Phobos turns and sets the car into gear. He backs up a little and then aggressively swings the wheel. “It worked enough that I’m completely fucked. Deimos is going to kill me for this.”

His panicked tone seems half dramatic, half deadly serious. Out the front windshield I see only darkness, but there must be a street and buildings, there must be substance for Phobos to be driving like this.

“How come you need my help to cross if your car’s part of the Otherside?” I ask.

“That’s a stupid question,” Phobos says. Distracted, mostly, not even all that rude but merely pointing out the blunt truth. He nervously checks the mirrors like he’s expecting a high speed pursuit. “If the separation between the Otherside and here is normally a brick wall, think of this as being a chain link fence. Just because we can talk doesn’t mean there’s not still a barrier between us. And that brick wall has holes in it, or you can dig under it, or - this is a bad analogy.”

“I think I understand,” I say.

“I doubt you do,” replies Phobos. “If you truly understood it, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

Anger flashes through me, so that I wish I still had Cain’s snarl to use. My own biting scorn seems flimsy by comparison. “For someone who wants me to help them, you’re being a jerk about it.”

Phobos shrugs. “What do you expect? It’s not in my nature to be helpful. At least, not without getting something in return, and so far the only thing you’ve given me is a stress headache. I fed your demon, I gave him somewhere to rest -- I even got you back to your body, didn’t I?”

“You made Cain eat cold soup and sleep on the couch. And Praxis was the one who helped get me across, not you.”

“If you want a better deal next time, specify some terms and conditions,” Phobos snaps. “Deal was I help you, you help me. Well, here I am helping you, and you’ve yet to help me. Do you really want to start breaking contracts this early in your career?”

I wasn’t aware I was starting a career in necromancy. I think abruptly of those stupid business cards with worthless contact information on them -- or, rather, contact information without a physical address, a phone number, a connection to the real world. I think of an Instagram account with endless pictures of clothes on display racks and mannequins, the over-filtered bright photos of decadent cakes and sweets, not a single selfie or identifying detail. I wonder how my dad would react if I told him I planned to start a business talking to dead things.

“Are you helping me?“ I ask Phobos. I look to the window even though the passing darkness tells me nothing. “Where are we going?”

“To hide. I assume that’s helpful. If it’s not, I can slow down enough for you to tuck-and-roll,” says Phobos.

“I’m not doing that. You’re going to free Cain. He’s stuck where he crossed, right? With the binding still in place, and you said you’d remove it before we crossed.”

“I said --”

“You said you’d remove it once we were in the center.” I struggle to remember the exact words, the exact language of the contract so Phobos can’t wiggle out of it. “I said I’d bring you with us when we crossed if I could. Well, Cain and I crossed, and I couldn’t bring you with me. Technically I already fulfilled my part of the arrangement. I never said I’d help you. I only said I’d bring you with me if I could.”

The angry teakettle hissing Phobos makes seems harmless and cute in comparison to a demon’s shattered-rock snarls. I expect him to argue or snip something at me in return, but he doesn’t. He sits fuming in silent fury, eyes intent on the road.

Finally he bursts out with, “I’m not helping you free a banished demon. That’s crazy. That’s completely crazy. I’m not helping you with that.”

“Ethan’s not crazy.” My friend’s decided to interject finally, and he sounds offended on my behalf despite the accuracy of Phobos’ accusation. He leans forward some, tone turning anxious and soft. “You shouldn’t say that. Ethan’s not crazy. He just gets confused sometimes.”

Abruptly I wonder how many times my friend made this argument to someone behind my back. My mom, maybe, or his mom and sisters, because I remember all the desperate ways in which he wanted to believe me. He wanted to believe in me, at least, that even if none of what I saw was real, that I at least wasn’t clawing-at-padded-walls crazy.

I squeeze his hand. “Shh, it’s okay. Phobos knows that. And call me Abel around him, okay?” My whispering attracts Phobos’ attention. His head turns some, I see a frown pluck the edges of his mouth.

“But your name’s not Abel.”

“I know that, but --”

“Who are you whispering to? What are you muttering about?” Phobos demands. “Don’t try anything stupid. I’ve got this thing humming with so many wards and charms, you’d be an idiot to even think of it.”

“I’m talking to my friend,” I say. “He’s here with me.”

“Right. That makes sense.” Phobos’ crisp reply is followed by the driver’s window rolling down, the sheet of dark-tinted glass disappearing to reveal a terrifying lack of anything I can see besides darkness. Context for identifying what’s happening comes in the form of Phobos’ brief wave of his keychain into the empty space.

“I’m not doing anything to help you,” I say. “I already did my part of our agreement. I made sure Cain didn’t hurt you, even though you treated him worse than a dog.”

“He’s a demon,” Phobos protests. “How else would you have me treat him?”

I ignore the question, because I have no idea how demons are meant to be treated. Probably not nicely, because Cain’s not very nice, and I doubt anyone’s bothered trying to make anything nice for him either.

“If you want me to help you, then I need the binding removed from Cain,” I say. “That’s the only way this works.”

I’ll let this dumb fairy huff and hiss and flit about in flimsy, panicked circles, but we’re doing what I want to do. Phobos starts to huff something dramatic about how that won’t work at all, I’m sure, because I’m stupid and crazy and whatever else for being this stubborn about freeing my demon. I don’t know if that’s just how necromancers are or if I’m a defunct one, the worst, because I want to do things the hard way. It’d be easier to find another demon, I’m sure, than go after the one that found me.

“Fuck!” Abruptly Phobos slams on the brakes. An odd lack of momentum leaves me stationary while he rocks forward. His hand scrambles for the gearshift, his eyes flick to the mirrors. Phobos braces a hand into the passenger seat as he turns around to stare out the back windshield -- driving in reverse, faster than he was driving forward.

“It’s Deimos.” The flat, swift urgency in his tone is sobering. Our petty bickering suddenly seems astronomically nearsighted. “He must have already talked to Praxis.”

Phobos turns to face the front again, the wheel already spinning. I bet it’s a tire-squealing and engine revving reversal, outside the car, but the chain link separation muffles my awareness of all that. I can’t see anything out the windows, either. It’s a terrifying, helpless feeling where I’d wildly suspect Phobos of making it all up if I could.

Another jerking slam of the brakes stops Phobos’ attempt at fleeing. He sits with his hands on the wheel, eyes wide and staring forward. “Fuck,” he whispers. “I’m trapped.”

Some vicious, unhelpful part of myself is fiendishly pleased seeing Phobos get as trapped as he made Cain feel. If I wasn’t caught in the same trap, that part of myself might be bigger.

Phobos doesn’t turn his head. He barely seems to move his lips as he whispers, “Don’t panic. There’s a chance I can talk our way out of this.”

I have no idea how Phobos plans to do that, since he couldn’t even talk his way into Praxis’ place. We’ve been running around in circles trying to avoid Deimos this whole time for a reason. I’m not sure I want to be trapped in a car with him. I made Cain crawl through broken glass specifically to avoid being trapped in a car with Deimos. If Deimos has that knife, I don’t want him anywhere near me or my friend.

Phobos shifts the SUV into park. His head turns to the passenger door as it opens. “Hi! How’d the hunting go?” he asks, with a big smile.

Deimos stands on the running board with the door open, one hand gripping the roof handle. I sit very still, not even breathing since my body’s on the wrong side of the fence for signs of life. I don’t want to think too much about that, but it’s a useful way to be silent. A hard grey-eyed glare goes over the interior of the SUV before focusing on Phobos.

“You lied.” Deimos’ accusation is a soft, rasped hush. He’s wearing head-to-toe black, a turtleneck peeping above a fitted winter jacket, black leather gloves -- ready for the cold or ready for a murder, either way he’s ready. He seems ready for anything. He’s tense, expression full of distrust.

Phobos’ pleasant smile, in contrast, seems warm and open. “Did I? I don’t think I did.”

A narrowed suspicion forms Deimos’ response. It’s enough pressure to make Phobos crack, his smile starts to take on a nervous edge. “What did I lie about? You found the car, I assume. It reeked of demon.”

Deimos shakes his head. “Wasn’t there.”

“I didn’t get close enough to see if the demon was actually present,” Phobos says quickly. “Did I mention that? I must have. Anyway, the police must have already picked up the vehicle if you couldn’t find it. That or he left, maybe, there’s just no telling.” I think he should quit while he’s ahead, but maybe his nervous rambling is less suspicious.

Deimos climbs the rest of the way into the vehicle and shuts the door. From the way Phobos’ hands clench around the wheel, this is either failing spectacularly or succeeding far more than he expected. Palpable tension fills the front half of the car. Somehow even the drowsy way Deimos half-covers a yawn seems dangerous.

“Drive,” Deimos says, sounding bored. “Already wasted enough time.”

“Right. Sorry about that.” Phobos shifts the car into gear. “Seemed like such a solid lead, you know? Win some, lose some. C’est la vie. That necromancer, the kid, I was thinking it’s probably going to be easier for you to find him than to find the demon. I could start searching hospitals, or --”

Deimos’ interruption is soft but abrupt, a raw whisper that’s loud enough to cut through Phobos’ rambling. “Shut up.”

A swallow bobs along Phobos’ throat. The delicate, pink bow of his mouth works anxiously before fitting into a smile. “It has been a long night,” he says agreeably. “But you still have two hours before dawn, so maybe there’s still time to...” The slow shake of Deimos’ head stops him. Phobos licks his lips. “So. Just, take you to Praxis.”

Deimos’ sly, sideways glance is accompanied by the small uptick of his lips. “Problem?”

Phobos shakes his head.

The cornered curve of his smile deepens. “Problem?”

Another head shake from Phobos, faster and more frantic. “No, no problem. I can take you there, no problem. I assumed you’d already been, but, no problem. No problem at all.”

He really is a terrible liar. I have no idea why I trusted him to do any of the talking, despite his eagerness to  answer all my dumb questions. I look to the door and wonder how easy it’d be to bail. The shadowed hand I’m clutching is both a comfort and a concern, because I’m not bailing unless I know he can come with me.

I’m pretty sure Deimos either suspects something or knows something. He’s smirking sideways at Phobos in such a way it’s obvious. He’s like a cat toying with a mouse, this demon hunter watching an airheaded fairy squirm and grimace under the weight of attempted subterfuge. I really shouldn’t have trusted Phobos. I think he’s trustworthy enough he’s looped right back around into being useless.

“Are you tired?” Phobos asks suddenly. “Feel free to recline the seat, take a nap. I’ll tell Praxis --”

“Not tired.”

Phobos bites at his lip. “Hungry? I could stop somewhere --”

“Not hungry,” Deimos rasps quietly.

I think maybe next time Phobos stops the car, my friend and I should try bolting. If Deimos can’t see me, then he probably can’t stop me. It’s worth a shot, but I have no idea where I would run, what I would do. Maybe my best chance at finding Cain is to let this demon hunter find him for me.

When Deimos leans forward, Phobos flinches. I brace for unknown disaster, but all that happens is the radio flicking to life. Deimos turns up the volume and then settles comfortably into the passenger seat. Bright, bouncing pop music assaults the tense silence.

I try to think of a plan. A good plan, if possible, even if I suspect a smart plan would involve being somewhere far away from all this. My only advantage is that Deimos doesn’t know I’m here. My disadvantages start with I don’t know what I’m doing and run all the way through to how much I don’t know about Deimos. No one’s explained what makes him a demon hunter, besides his propensity for killing necromancers and demons.

By the time Phobos starts to park, I still haven’t figured out what to do. When Deimos and Phobos open their respective doors to leave the car, I realize I’m about to be stuck inside the SUV. Before I can do more than panic about it, the cargo hatch opens.

“Oops,” Phobos says. He turns his head toward the back of the vehicle. “Wrong button.”

I doubt it, I doubt this is anything other than intentional. “Go,” I whisper to my friend. I help him scramble over the seat and make sure to keep hold of his hand, same as he makes sure to keep hold of mine. Phobos comes around to close the hatch as I’m letting my friend lead me to the sidewalk.

“The alley’s this way,” he whispers. “Did you want to go there?”

I shake my head. “Follow Deimos,” I whisper back. The dark outline of my friend’s head nods, and we stand there for a moment further before starting forward. We go the opposite direction of the alley. I can barely discern Phobos and Deimos moving through the smoke and shadow of the Otherside in front of us, but that’s okay. My friend can see them, he can hear them, and I’m thinking of Phobos’ wall analogy without trying not to get my hopes up about what that means.

Context tells me we’ve walked around the block to the front of the building. I remember from coming here before that the street entrance is completely inaccessible, it’s a solid denial of boarded up windows and bricked-over doorway. I remember driving past with my friend and seeing graffiti tagging the property.

None of that exists on the Otherside, though. I shouldn’t be surprised that instead a soft glow breaks the impenetrable gloom. The bricked-over, graffiti-covered doorway I remember appears as a perfectly normal-looking door. Normal as something can look on the Otherside, I suppose, given the gentle spill of light that comes from no readily apparent source. An ethereal porch light, then, lit up in friendly welcome.

Phobos and Deimos stand as stark shadowed contrast to the glowing red door. The knob gleams as polished and softened white that I suspect is bone. Beneath curls an ornate old-fashioned lock with a foreboding keyhole. Bright streaks of crimson drip like accumulated wax, thick with light in the black eternal night.

The door opens without anyone needing to knock. A man stands in the doorway, his face a dance of shadows in the flickering light. A strong jaw anchors the firm line of his fearsome lopsided glare. The patch stretches across the wrong side, leaving a scarred socket exposed. An overlay of glimmering suggestion shapes a red outline, a glowing orb, some ghosted presence of an eye focused directly on me.

Praxis shifts the patch’s concealing shadow back to the left side of his face. The red glow is slow to fade. His scowling disapproval remains. He steps back as Phobos and Deimos step forward, not a word or glance exchanged, so that I wonder what this looks like in the bricked-over reality of a rundown building.  

These two shadows I’ve been following disappear into the flickering candlelight that’s probably not coming from any candles. Praxis remains, visible in mottled overlays of light and dark. He keeps the door open expectantly. I see nothing of the room beyond. I have every reason to think this won’t end well, every reason to want to run. I should be afraid, as I cross over the threshold and into the unknown, but I'm not. 


	26. Chapter 26

Plenty of shadows fill the room, and plenty of light as well, in ways that seem normal until I realize there are no candles, no overhead fixtures. I feel as if I’ve stepped back in time, given the heavy wood furnishings, the stuffy velvet upholstery, the arrangement and feel of the room. A curtain sweeps across a doorway to the left. The coziness of the space better reflects that someone lives here, unlike the alley-side entrance I’ve used before. 

I’ve brought one shadow along with me, my friend, who stands dark as soot in the gentle glow. Deimos forms another spot of dark in his head-to-toe black. He stands with his arms crossed, lips firm and brows peaked beneath the long fall of his bangs. For a moment I’m terrified he sees me, but then I realize he’s glaring at Praxis. 

Phobos hovers nervously around the paired armchairs occupying the corner furthest from Deimos. An open book lies face-down on the small, round table between the two chairs. It gives a blatant suggestion that Praxis may have been here waiting, and given the tension in the room that seems entirely true. 

An expectant pause hangs in the air. Each of them is anticipating the other will speak, I realize, and perhaps the smart thing to do would be to let that happen. If I was doing the smart thing, though, I wouldn’t have come here. 

“Hello,” I say. 

Deimos takes a wary half-step back. His gaze flashes over the small room. “Necromancer,” he hushes. 

“It’s Abel,” I correct him. 

The downward flick of Deimos’ hand brings a slim blade into his palm. Praxis takes a step toward him, and the sideways snap of the demon hunter’s gaze is just as sharp as the knife he’s holding. Praxis disregards the knife and glare alike as he gets closer to Deimos. 

“Enough,  _ suflețel _ . Put it away.” Praxis takes hold of Deimos’ upper arm. 

Fury twists the delicate, dangerous lines of Deimos’ expression as he glares up at Praxis, but the knife whisks out of sight with another flick of his hand. “Explain,” he demands. Despite the anger coloring his expression, his voice stays the same short, clipped rasp. It’s a dry sound, hoarse and raw, the texture rough like sandpaper.

Phobos grips slender, pale fingers into the velvet upholstery of the chair he’s hiding behind. “So, funny story, you’ll never believe who I ran into at the mall today. Right? More tragic than funny, I suppose --”

“I banished the demon,” Praxis says. He lets go of Deimos’ arm, though their expressions stay clashed and crossed. I think this is a lovers’ quarrel. How awkward, and incredibly dangerous, because Deimos flashes with a sudden fury. 

“Mine!” His snarl is more of a raw squeak. I’m the only one who flinches when Deimos strikes. A rather harmless fist smacks into the larger man’s shoulder. “Told you! Mine!” 

“You already killed him once.” Phobos’ placating tone carries a ring of desperation. “Do you really want to spend limited eternity holding a grudge?”

Deimos’ sharp, steady glare indicates that’s likely true, as does the accusation he throws in a low, venomous growl. “ _ Killed me _ .”

Brittle silence follows. Phobos and Praxis exchange a knowing look, so clearly this information only comes as a surprise to me. I’m not sure why it’s a surprise. I shouldn’t be surprised, given what I know of Cain. It seems entirely reasonable for Cain to have killed Deimos.

“Enough,” says Praxis. Firm and resolute, with his hand on Deimos’ arm again despite the hard, murderous stare this earns him. “I told you once before, enough of this with him. It is over.”

“Not over,” Deimos insists. “Never over.”

The stiff lash of Praxis’ tone conveys terrible finality, despite the softened hush. “End this, or we are ended.”

Shock ripples over Deimos’ expression, breaking up his anger for a moment, but then he’s plunging brows and howling fury. “Wouldn’t!”

I’m with Deimos, that it seems a bluff, despite the way Praxis shakes his head like it isn’t. Across the room, Phobos stands frozen with an awkward half-smile slapped in place. He’s clearly decided to try hiding in plain sight from the bickering lovers, and that seems likely to work. The way Praxis and Deimos stare at each other leaves little room for anything else. 

A slow rumble builds in Deimos and gains pitch and intensity along the way. Frustration bursts from him as a short, wordless cry. He shoves both hands into Praxis with ineffective rage before he turns to storms from the room. The whisk of the curtain gets followed up by a steady thumping up the stairs. I expect a door to slam, when the pounding footsteps silence, but of course there isn’t one. I’m not sure how a curtain could get slammed closed. 

“Well,” says Phobos. “That went splendidly. Entirely less bloodshed than I expected, although --”

A single glance from Praxis shuts him up. The same commanding lopsided gaze sweeps the corner where I’ve been standing. “This trouble has been long coming,” he says. 

The absurd urge to apologize strikes me, even though I’m pretty sure I’m a victim in all this. “I just want to know where Cain is. I want Phobos to remove the binding,” I say. “You leave me alone, I’ll leave you alone… I don’t have a reason to want Deimos dead. Or, more dead --” I can’t believe Cain didn’t mention the incredibly important detail that the demon hunter out to kill me was already dead. 

Realization flows over me like an icy wave. I hurry for the curtain with my friend’s hand held tight. I sweep my other hand to catch the fabric and instead wisp right through, the curtain or me or perhaps us both being made of smoke and not substance. When I try to simply walk through it, however, I can’t. The wispy curtain resists my efforts with startling effectiveness. 

If Deimos is a dead thing, and I’m a necromancer, then really I shouldn’t be afraid of him. He should be afraid of me. Except this curtain’s between us, and I can’t even figure out how to get around that simple of an obstacle. Everything I don’t know outweighs what little I do know, so I’m not sure why I thought even for a second that I’d be able to take control of the situation. 

I turn to find Praxis watching me -- actually watching me, because he shifted the eye patch over. In the flickering light of the room it’s just a scarred-over socket that I see, but I remember the red outlined glow that greeted me at the door. I’ve pretty handily been caught trying to leave the room unnoticed, so I point at the curtain rather than deny anything. 

“Why can’t I go through here?” I demand. “I want to follow Deimos. I want to talk to him.”

“Good luck with that,” says Phobos. “I’ll save you the --”

“If he’s dead, then maybe I do want to make him more dead,” I say. “Maybe I’ll do that, if you don’t help me get back Cain. I’ll make Deimos more than dead. I know how. I’ve done it before.”

Rationally I’m very aware that making threats is a stupid thing to be doing, when I have no way to carry them through, no understanding of why Cain and Deimos keep murdering each other, no real plan to get myself out of this mess. I wish being a necromancer came with an instruction manual, because I’ve been told a lot about how powerful I am without actually feeling very powerful.

Praxis seems unimpressed with my efforts at being threatening. After a moment of watching me, he moves the eye patch to the left again. “Is it your desire to make an enemy?” he asks quietly. 

Immediately I know the answer to that is a resounding no. Even if I knew what I was doing and had Cain with me, I still don’t think I’d want this wizard for an enemy. “I don’t want any enemies,” I say, quite truthfully. 

A slow smile spreads over Praxis’ face. “Nor do I.”

“Me neither,” says Phobos. 

As if anyone in the room cares, and he shouldn’t have said anything. It gets me to thinking, even though I know I can’t think too much about Phobos crashing his massive SUV into my friend. Much as it’s my fault for ruining my friend’s life, it’s arguably more Phobos’ fault for accelerating through the red light to kill him. But I can’t say that, I can’t even think that.  

“How then is this to be done, without an enemy made?” Praxis poses the question like a riddle to match the sphinx-like quality of his smile. I don’t think he’s truly amused. His gaze keeps going to the curtain, to where Deimos went. I don’t think I’m the enemy he’s most worried about making. 

Phobos slides closer to the door. “Don’t think you need me for this, do you? Deimos is down for the day, so --”

“Stay.” Praxis gestures to one of the armchairs. Abrupt, stiff motions drag Phobos into the offered seat. It’s a pleasant-seeming moment laced with danger, since it’s an offer that can’t be refused. It gets paired with an equally soothing and irrefusable, “Tell me of this new trouble.”

“I let Deimos talk me into doing the hit-and-run maneuver. I know, you said to leave Abel alone, clearly he has difficulty listening, clearly I have problems saying no. Surprise we all already know, this demon is that demon, reverse possession, I told Abel I’d help him if he took me across with him, I sent Deimos on a wild goose chase and took the goose home with me, I had a dumb plan, you ruined it, I honestly thought it might work, obviously not.” The speed at which Phobos spills his guts is almost impressive. He barely pauses for breath. 

Praxis stands beside the table with his fingers lightly rested across the splayed cover of the book lying there. The yellowed pages and plain brown exterior indicate the book’s age matches the furniture, and definitely everything in the room is multiple times older than me. 

“Ach, what a mess.” Praxis shakes his head. “Have I not explained to you enough the restraints of the spell? Abel cannot help you.”

“You don’t know that,” Phobos shoots back. “He’s a necromancer, you’re not. That has to count for something. He crossed when Deimos did the exorcism, you were able to send him across --”

Praxis lifts a finger from the book cover, and Phobos quiets immediately. Genuine sympathy carries in the way Praxis says gently, “The spell cannot be altered. It would not have worked, this plan. You may try, if you so desire, but this I assure you. Only time will release you.”

“But --” Desperation claws over Phobos’ expression. He slumps in defeat, shoulders drooping. His protest is soft and deeply pensive, “But I’m sick of waiting.” 

I step closer to the two of them but stay well out of arm’s length. I’m scared to remind them I’m listening, scared of what it means that apparently I can’t help Phobos. I’m not sure I have any bargaining chips, besides destroying Deimos, and I’m not even all that certain I could do that. Somehow I don’t think so, now that I’m actually thinking things through. I doubt Praxis would have let me close to Deimos at all if that were the case. 

Praxis turns consoling as he asks, “It is only -- how many years?”

“Twenty-four,” Phobos says gloomily. “I have twenty-four years left.”

“Not so many,” offers Praxis. 

Phobos shrugs without lifting his gaze from his lap. 

A sigh escapes Praxis. It’s a practiced sound of knowing when an argument’s been lost, even if he’s got the right answer. His head turns toward the curtain, where he saw me standing last, even though I’m across the room. “Now to untangle this,” he says. 

“I’m here,” I say. It seems the polite thing to do. 

Praxis adjusts accordingly. He stands straight and tall, shoulders squared like he’s braced for something. Immediately I know he’s got the answers for me as well, and I’m not going to like my set anymore than Phobos and Deimos liked theirs. It’s bad news, whatever he has for me, I know it’s bad news. 

“I cannot summon you the mortal plane. How it is that you returned before, that is how you must return again. I do not know what name to call,” Praxis says. 

He lifts a hand to plead for silence, even though I’m still trying to make sense of what he’s said. “You cannot tell me now, so do not try. The one to call you back must know your name. As I understand this,” he adds, as a further warning. “Yet I could be mistaken. I am not a necromancer.” Praxis smirks ruefully, inviting me into an inside joke that I’m clueless about. 

Only after I’ve nodded for a bit do I remember to say, “Okay.” It’s not okay, at all, but I at least understand it. Perhaps not the inside joke, where this wizard sounds apologetic for not being me, but I understand that I’m stuck on the Otherside. For now, at least. Hopefully not forever. 

“What about Cain?” I ask, when nothing further gets volunteered.

“I will help you,” Praxis says reluctantly. “To release the demon, you need only find him and remove that which binds him. Walking the spiritual plane as you are, this is what you must do, if you wish to release this demon.”

“Okay. Okay. So, first I free Cain, then I go home. Great. Where’s Cain?”

Praxis and Phobos suddenly exchange a knowing look, a highly suspicious look. I wait with growing impatience and terror, because no one’s mentioned anything yet about where Cain might be. I thought he’d be here, where we crossed, but I don’t think that’s the case. 

The silent negotiation between them ends with Phobos’ grimaced effort at a smile. “So, funny story,” he says. He looks somewhere to the left of where I’m standing. “The thing about that is we don’t know. We don’t know where your demon went, just that he got banished, so…”

Phobos edges lower into the armchair and grips the upholstery. Praxis stands very tall and straight. Both of them look incredibly frightened, in this incredibly frightening moment, as the lights in the room flicker all the stronger. If this were candlelight, it’d be a gust of ominous air doing all this frenzy. Instead I realize it’s me, I’m doing this, I’m freaking out enough to do this. 

Realizing my shattered emotional wavelength is about to shatter Praxis’ house makes me stop. The calming breath I draw in happens because of habit only and doesn’t need released. Gradually the glow of the room stabilizes. Phobos flicks his gaze around with the same frozen, terrified smile. 

“Abel,” says Praxis. He sounds remarkably calm, considering I might set his house on non-literal fire. Or maybe literal fire, I certainly don’t know what all I’m capable of doing so anything seems reasonable. “Abel, this is not to say he cannot be found.”

“How am I going to find him, then? How do I do that?”

I’m tempted to try for whatever fire-setting powers I can when Praxis and Phobos exchange another reluctant look. Phobos takes up the explanation, which starts with a shrug. “Demon summoning is so not something we have a lot of experience doing, you know. I mean it’s entirely possible there’s a way for you to find him. Praxis, was that your first time banishing a demon?”

Praxis’ answer requires a lengthy pause first. “It was.”

I focus on his uneasy expression, rather than Phobos’ guileless smile. “What aren’t you telling me? What does it mean that he’s been banished? If I can find him, then he’s somewhere, so where is that? Where do demons go when they get banished?”

“To wherever it is they were before.” Phobos answers, despite my questions being directed at Praxis. “You summoned him, Praxis banished him, he’s back where he started. I don’t know where that is, Praxis doesn’t know where that is, getting dramatic about things won’t change that. He’s wherever he was, wherever he died, wherever that is. It’s certainly not here. You’re wasting time bothering us.”

Phobos’ dismissive, bossy tone is rude to the point of insulting, but I don’t think that’s why Praxis stiffens expectantly. I think it’s because Phobos just blurted out more than he should. 

“Where he died,” I say. “You mean, where Deimos killed him.”

I know I’m right by the swift exchange of glances -- Phobos guilty, Praxis annoyed -- neither of them wanted to admit that my situation wasn’t so hopeless as presented. 

“Assuming no one killed him after Deimos,” Phobos says. “Then… yeah.”

Silence follows. Terrible and awkward, because I know without anyone needing to tell me that Deimos intends to keep the location secret. 

“When?” I ask. “When did Deimos kill him?”

Phobos shrugs and looks up at Praxis, who worries together a frown. I realize he’s having to think about it. I see him look down at his hands and realize he’s having to count. Phobos realizes the same and shrugs again, less dismissive. “Around the same time Cher divorced Sonny and recorded trash for a bit. When was that? Seventy-six? Seventy-seven? Somewhere then, maybe, is when Deimos came back.” 

I find it a bit ridiculous they can’t give me a straight answer to such a simple question, but fortunately it aligns with one of the rare times Cain gave me one instead. Stretching before me are my endless stupid questions, each one a little piece of the puzzle I’ve been putting together for years. I’m grateful for the fact I’m a non-breathing, seemingly-invisible presence in the room. My silent epiphany requires no dramatic gasp, and they can’t see my sudden bursting grin. 

“Okay.” It slips from me a bit too brightly. I don’t think either of them finds my tone unusual though, despite the swapped glance between them.

“The best thing to do is just go home,” Phobos says. “Skip finding that demon. If you really want another one, they’re not that hard to summon. Well, no, they are, but that didn’t stop you the first time.”

“I thought you wanted to stop me from summoning demons,” I say. I’m suddenly suspicious this might be some kind of trap. “You said Deimos was right to want to kill me.”

“Yeah. That’s Deimos,” says Phobos. “He hates necromancers. He hates demons. Your demon, in particular, but it’s like we just agreed. No one wants to make any enemies here. I’m not looking to fight any moral battles, that is so not my thing. Kill hundreds of people if you want. Kill thousands of them, if you can. Raise an army of the undead, see how well that works out for you, or try taming a demon if that’s more your speed. I don’t care what you do, Abel, so long as you don’t bother me with it.”

Despite a disapproving frown for how Phobos worded it, Praxis nods his agreement. “This life, what it is you can do, it is yours,” he says. “I am not to judge how it is used.” 

That seems an entirely reasonable position to hold for a wizard whose house contains a door to the Otherside and a pentagram made of blood. Confusing as I find all this, there’s a certain soothing simplicity to it as well. I suppose in a room full of monsters, no one wants to be the first to start pointing fingers. 

“So we’re done here,” I say. “Unless you think Deimos will tell me anything.”

A nervous, tittering laugh escapes Phobos. He glances up at Praxis’ unhappy scowl and quiets. From Praxis I just get a solemn, “He is not to be involved in this.” 

So much warning carries in the husky, soft-spoken sternness. Immediately I respond with, “Okay. Okay. I understand.” I think if I try asking again to speak to Deimos about Cain, I really will make an enemy of Praxis despite my best efforts.

I only asked to seem less suspicious, because I don’t need Deimos to tell me anything. I know where to find Cain. I know exactly where to find Cain, if he’s back where all this started. The trick now is getting there, but I’ve got a plan for that. I’ve got my own chauffeur and bodyguard, an all-too-willing guide, the best friend a necromancer could have while stuck on the Otherside. He followed me into this nightmare, refused to leave me, and as we leave Praxis' place I make a silent promise that no matter what happens next, I'll find a way to help him go home once it's over. Somehow I'll find a way to help him. I'll find a way for us both to go home, after I find Cain. 


	27. Chapter 27

“You need to wait here until I come back.”

“Okay.”

Beyond the shadow of his head stretches vast, murky depths of undulating darkness. Both his hands are clasped tight in mine.

“Just stay here and wait, okay?”

His head bobs in an agreeable nod. He should be trying to talk me out of this, but instead he says, “Sure.”

Still I won’t let go of his hand, won’t stop saying all these stupid things. I tried taking him with me into the surrounding pool of smoky-black nothing, I thought maybe we could look for Cain together. I won’t do that again. I can’t.

“You have to be here when I get back,” I say. “Okay?”

He’s starting to sound a bit confused, maybe a little concerned. “Yeah, Ethan. I’ll wait here.”

I can’t think about how scared I am that if I let go of his hand, I’ll never find him again. That I won’t know where to find him, without him to guide me. I don’t know his name to call for him, and I’m too scared if I ask he won’t know the answer to tell me. Considering what a nightmare my life has become, this is the most scared I’ve been.

“Okay,” I hush. I’m in my body, but there’s no heartbeat for this. No tears, no ragged breathing. Just the whisper of all my pleas for him to be here when I’m done finding Cain.

The shadows beneath us firm enough to stand on, this spot that I guess is solid ground, it’s the wooden boat dock of my parent’s lake house. My father’s boat isn’t here on the Otherside. Actually I think he sold it, after my accident, after all those arguments with my mother about what to do about me. Certainly not take me and my friend out on the lake, no more Memorial Day weekend barbeques with business partners and country club friends. All that ended the day I fell. All this started instead. I haven’t been back since. Unless this counts, I guess.

I’m wasting time. I don’t know how long it took to get here. I’ve lost track of time entirely and have no idea where I am beyond this particular spot. I could guess by feel to find the end of the dock in either direction, but beyond that is nothing. Black eternal everything, my whole world gone silent, dark and sterile.

I release one of my best friend’s hands. He stands there, probably smiling, unaware of why I’m terrified to let him go. Slowly I release his other hand. The constant held warmth fades from my palm to leave a cold, empty longing.

“You’ll be here when I get back, right?” I wish I could cry. Now that I’m not holding his hand, I can let myself think all these terrible things. I can remember the blood-streaked slump of him against the steering wheel. I can be scared now that I’ve lost him forever, despite him being right here in front of me.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’ll wait here for you.”

“Okay.” I take a step closer and put my arms around the strange, solid feel of him. I close my eyes, and it’s less like hugging a shadow, more like what I remember. I have so many memories of him, all these memories of him, most of my life spent with him.

He wasn’t there that day I hit my head and fell into the water, he wasn’t there to see me flopped unbreathing on the deck of my father’s boat. He only heard about it later, rode his bike all the way to the hospital to visit me. He took notes for me, brought me my homework, did everything he could to help because that’s just who he is, just the type of loyal best friend I don’t deserve. I said we’d stick together, but I have to leave him here if I want to find Cain.

I wish I could cry for this, even though I’m sure that would scare him. He squeezes warmth and happiness into me with the force of the hug, a nice long hug like we’re two dumb little kids. “I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he says. “I’ll wait for you. Okay?” Concerned, because I’m upset, I won’t let go of him again or stop making these strange whines that are all I have to shape my sorrow. He should be trying to stop me from doing this, should be trying to talk me into just going home, but I’m not sure if he remembers where home is, that he has a home.

I brush my lips into the soft shadow of his cheek. I pull from him, he lets me, our hands slid into a twinned hold between us before dropping. It’s a long, lingering goodbye that I won’t think of as such.

“Okay. Yeah, okay,” I whisper.

It’s not okay. I wonder if he knows that, I wonder if he’s scared. I hope he isn’t scared. I don’t want him scared to be left here alone.

I turn to face the edge of the dock, although I try not to think of it like that. I look forward into the darkness and then walk forward. I make the easy transition from what’s the dock to what’s the murky-soft density of the supposed lake. My friend sunk into the darkness, when I tried to take him with me, but I find it difficult but not impossible to walk over it. The grasping depths reminds me of walking through heavy snow. I try not to listen to what I know isn’t the murmuring of choppy water. I’m hearing voices, whispers, the breezy call of ambitious unknowns in the stretching distance.

None of them are Cain. None are my friend, or even friendly, so I won't listen. I struggle to keep moving even as I sink deeper. I know from memory it’s possible to run and cannonball off the edge of the dock, the water's deep enough for that. The fact I’m wading through smoke-thick strangeness of the Otherside a bit past my knees is concerning for many reasons. I try not to think about it, same as I try not to think about all the summers my friend and I spent doing those running balled-up jumps.

I’m equally trying not to think about how impossible it’s going to be to find Cain. This is a big lake. I don’t know where the boat was, where I fell, how close I fell to wherever Cain is, and if I need to find him by feel -- if I need to shape Cain from darkness like I did my friend, then I have no idea how I’m going to do that. Am I to feel blind into the shadows forever, until I’m so lost I don’t know where I am?

No. Not that. That's not what I'll do. I’ll find Cain. I run my tongue over my lips to feel at the scar he gave me. With my fingers I feel at my back of my head, I feel through my hair to find the scar there as well. Unlike Cain’s jagged bite, the cut of the boat rail into my scalp needed stitches and time to heal. 

Chill brushes along my ankles. It’s the spine-tingling panic of clingy algae or moss, a buried twig or maybe some small fish. It’s not that, but I’m not going to think what else it might be. Probably not Cain. Probably whatever’s whispering and moaning on the carried sound of windless, open dead air.

Another touch tugs at my feet as I move. I keep moving, try to move faster in fact, even though I have no idea what I’m moving toward. Finding Cain, that’s what I need to think about, I need to ignore everything that isn’t finding Cain. I don’t know how else to find him, except by trying to find him. That makes as much sense as anything, and it’s the best plan I’ve got.

Eventually the effort really is a bit like swimming. It takes a whole-body effort to move through the dense darkness and clutching, grabbing ambitions of things that aren’t Cain. I bite my lip and think only of trying to find Cain, and then I see him. I see something, at least, something bright and getting nearer.

The brightness shapes into winding coils of shimmering creamy-rose rope. The binding, wrapping him head-to-toe. I want to shout, scream, run closer but it’s struggling instead. Desperation like I remember before from half-drowning in a different lake, a real lake, surrounded by a sleeping city but so much more real than this nightmare.

Cords of that pinkish-gold light constrict Cain’s ankles, thighs, his wrists held together behind his back, arms bound to his chest. The glow forms a gag and blindfold as well, it’s a visceral too-real binding just like Phobos described. He’s blind, deaf, mute, unable to move, totally helpless and trapped here in this dark, foreboding hell.

But I found him, I’ve found Cain. I strain through the last few inches of separation. I don’t know what I’ll do if I wisp through him, but my fingers fall into the heated warmth of his hair. I fumble to grab for the binding over his eyes, the first of those glowing horrors I need to remove. Electric-shock agony bursts with sudden reprimand.    

With a sharp cry I yank my fingers back. Throbbing pain radiates from the reddish round bite. Frustration builds in me like a slow drip from a faucet. All this cold terror within me, how much I don’t know what I’m doing, it’s too much. I can feel the pressure all around me, the murky darkness squeezing close. Those whispered ambitions surge closer, become louder, but I won’t listen. I won’t give up, not when I’ve found Cain.

All I need to do is remove the binding. I’ve found him, that was the hard part, this must be the easy part, even if it hurts. I sweep my fingers into Cain’s hair, the dark heated warmth I remember. My touch brushes away the constricting light . Harsh sting numbs my fingers into leaden torment.

I grit my teeth and cup Cain’s cheek with my other hand. I caress aside the wisps of light to clear his closed eyes, slacked lips. “Cain,” I whisper. “Cain, wake up.”

Faster I attack the binding, all this flurry of sweeping touches and trying not to whimper and flinch when bitten. Yanking the cords free of Cain’s wrists is when my hands start to bleed. I bite back sobs and keep going, work even faster to free him. 

The drops of blood suspend oddly in the darkness around us. Glistening crimson shines and shimmers with a dulled, shadowed light all of its own. That too-bright hot glow of my own blood, it lifts a baying howl from the surrounding darkness. Blood in the water, a scent being caught by what I wish were just sharks. Terror crawls down my back as the cry is lifted into a hundred voices surrounding me. I see nothing except Cain, eerily illuminated in the fast-fading light that I’m trying to extinguish faster.

“Cain!” His legs and feet are still wrapped tight, but I wrap myself tight around him instead. I crush my arms around his chest, bury my face into his neck and shoulder. “Cain, please, wake up, wake up --”

Something grabs at my ankle, and I scream. I’m pulled from Cain a measure of inches before it happens, he jolts into motion. The most beautiful rumbling snarl accompanies the fast, bruising snatch of Cain grabbing me back from the unknown.

His hands tighten into my arms, my shoulders -- the surrounding chaos silences. The grip on my ankle is gone, as is the struggle to move, the creamy-rose light. None of that. Just Cain, grabbing hold of me, the snarl fading.

His dark gleaming eyes are wide, his brows lifted high for once, he’s as shocked to see me as I am thrilled to have him see me. The widest bright smile consumes my face. I can’t even stop smiling to kiss him, though I try as I smash excitedly into him. I’m all over Cain shrieking once more, this time with laughter.

He’s just standing there too stunned to hardly move. Solid ground beneath us now, the moment Cain snapped awake everything stabilized. I’m not sure what that means about the lake, where I am, what’s happening but who cares. I woke up Cain, I found him. He’s here with me.

Cain’s fingers dig bruises as he shoves me off him. He’s scowling now, looking furious even though I think the harsh, feral gleam of his teeth is a smile. He’s got something sarcastic and snaky ready for me, but then he looks down at my bitten and bleeding hands. His eyes widen at the sight of the smeared scarlet shine.

He hisses, growls, pulls me in close and looks around into the black nothing. My laughter stops, the smile fades. My stomach tightens, a strange heaviness builds through me. I press close to Cain and get under the tight protection of his arm.

I’m frightened by how quiet he is, how serious this just got. Cain’s scanning the darkness around us like whatever grabbed my ankle might come back. I only see and hear Cain. I intend to keep it that way. I’ve started shaking, trembling up against Cain. Around us is a suffocating heaviness that’s making me feel breathless and tight despite the way I can’t breathe.

“Cain,” I whisper to him. His eyes flick down to me immediately. “Cain.” Pleading, aching -- terrified, and he ducks his head down to kiss me.

The devouring gasp of his lips flares through the scar. My mouth opens willingly to the invasion of his tongue, same as I spread my legs for the press of his thigh between them. I only want Cain’s touch, his husky growl. No other voices or hands in the dark. Only him.

Shivering moans bring me closer against Cain, the solid, real feel of his body beneath the wool, cotton, and denim of his clothes. Cain lifts my arm in an odd, cradling gesture. The hot rasp of his tongue runs along the soft underside of my forearm and flicks over my wrist.

I’m transfixed by his expression, the strange close-eyed rapture of it, the tender way Cain does such a demonic thing as drink my blood. I’m tight against Cain, tight everywhere, hard arousal throbbing through me in tempo to the heartbeat I’m missing. So many alarming, dangerous things I could be thinking about, when all I’m focused on is watching Cain lick the blood from my wounds.

Heat suffuses the sharp cuts and stinging bites, a hot whip of sensation that turns cold, becomes trickles of icy numb. As Cain collects the spilled blood, the peaches-and-cream skin clears into scarless normalcy. Sweet ache lingers as memory over the wounds. Questions lodge in my throat, thick as tears.

Cain’s eyes open in a slow daze. Luminescent and radiant, his dark-gleaming eyes shine bright as my blood did. Bright like the shining corded light of the binding. Bright enough that it’s breathtaking, even in the breathless impossibility of the Otherside. The onyx brilliance forms a vast eternity, a bottomless depth to get lost within searching.

I stared once before to find the shaded difference between iris and pupil. I remember the vibrant gloom of a car’s backseat and sloping bands of streetlights passing over Cain’s face. I remember as well a cloudy sky, bright sunshine, the rippling waters and wind in my hair on that beautiful summer day I fell into the watery depths of the lake. Deep oblivion, eternal night, gleaming dark eyes -- a moment between heartbeats in the absence of breath, such an insignificant small gap of time to serve as a beacon for Cain’s ambitions. I should have died that day, I should be stuck on the Otherside, but the gleaming forever of a demon’s eyes assures me of unknown possibilities.

I realize what’s happening much too late to stop it, much too late to work the lump of uncertainty in my throat into a desperate plea. I’m not sure who I’d beg to stop this, considering I’m the necromancer doing it. I don’t need anyone to call me back, I don’t need my name to remind me who I am, where I belong. Not when I can see the way home in the endless darkness. 


	28. Chapter 28

When I hear Marcia in room thirty-seven killed herself, my first thought is good for her -- she set a goal and followed through. She accomplished it despite the obstacles, despite everyone telling her what a stupid thing it’d be to throw her life away at seventeen. I’ve been trying to kill something for six weeks without any success other than cementing my status as pants-on-head crazy. I’m jealous of a dead girl, that’s my gut reaction. I’m jealous she’s succeeded where I failed.

“How’d she do it?”

Cynthia and Jamil stop talking, start staring at me. Belatedly I realize that I’m not actually part of this conversation. It’s just happening right in front of me. Also it’s been a few days since I actually said anything to anyone voluntarily. I haven’t exactly been cooperative. It’s no secret I don’t want to be here.  

Cynthia twirls a finger into her fly-away dark curls. “Um, hey, Ethan. Didn’t … realize you were listening.”

I’m sure I’m not making this any less awkward for her with my emotionless staring, but I just want my question answered, I don’t want niceties. I’m not here to make friends. I’m here against my will, because I’m not crazy. I’m not bipolar or schizophrenic or suffering from an identity disorder. I know exactly who I am, what I am. I’m a necromancer. It’s not my fault that diagnosis isn’t in the manual.

“I think she OD’d,” Jamil says. “Hoarded pills under her mattress or something.”

Cynthia tugs on the fresh-twisted curl with a frown. “Oh, that’s kind of lame.”

Her disappointment matches mine. I already thought of an overdose, except I’m not sure it’d work. I’m not sure it’d be clean enough. It seems like it’d make a mess of things on the inside, at a molecular level, a chemical reaction to destroy vital organs that I probably need to keep functioning. I’m not sure what happens to a body in an overdose, and I can’t research it to find out the risk. I’m not allowed to use the internet anymore. I’m not allowed to use a lot of things, like shoelaces or a belt, even things like sharpened pencils or nail clippers.

The two of them keep talking with a modest effort to include me, even though I’m back to ignoring them. The book I’m reading is awful and boring. I’m not even reading it, I’m mostly just staring at the rows of printed letters.

Though I quit being cooperative pretty early on in this adventure, there’s still the rules I have to follow. My complicated world enforces order and security with omnipotent power I can’t contradict. Not when I’m supervised twenty-four seven. Sometimes my world requires me to abide by the limited possibilities presented. Medicine check is one of those times, or so I thought.

I haven’t figured out a way yet to get out of it, but it’s possible. Clearly it’s possible somehow to pass the nurse’s mouth check without swallowing the pill. I have no idea how. Being a necromancer doesn’t help me with that. Even if I don’t plan on overdosing, hoarding my medication rather than taking it would make this easier. I wouldn’t spend so much time staring at sentences without understanding them. More reasons to be jealous of a dead girl. She figured out a way around the rules.

Eventually I realize what’s just happened besides Marcia earning a gold star on her chart for self-actualization. I’m sure the psychiatrists wanted her to set a goal like _go to college_ , but they can’t deny that she realized her potential as a teen suicide statistic.

“Marcia died.”

Quite the sudden announcement I make, considering the conversation’s moved on to pop music. We’re no longer discussing the dead girl. The novelty of it’s worn off on Cynthia and Jamil, who I’m pretty sure spend all this time talking in front of me because word got around I bat for the other team. I think Jamil has a crush on me, and Cynthia’s agreed to play matchmaker. Clearly Jamil deserves to be here, if he thinks a psychiatric hospital is a good place to pick up a boyfriend. I’m glad I make a cute crazy kid though. It’s kind of flattering, in a weird creepy way.

“Um, yeah.” Cynthia offers me a smile. “Yeah, Ethan. We told you that. Marcia died last night.”

It’s my favorite tone of voice, the _I’m talking to a crazy person_ voice where all the answers are obvious, and it’s sad I can’t understand that.

“We don’t know if she’s dead. They took her to the hospital,” Jamil says.

“She looked dead,” Cynthia insists.

“You don’t know that.”

“Katie does, she swears to it. Girl was dead.”

The spiral of hair drops from Cynthia’s hand. Her mouth keeps shaping words, but I’m not listening. Something died near me. Finally, something died near me.

“Where’s her room?”

Both of them stare at me like they’re not sure how to answer, or maybe like they’re not going to answer. I’m fine with that, I’ll wait. Someone else will tell me, maybe one of the nurses. From where I’m sitting in the common area, there’s three staff in line of sight. I could also ask Katie, soon as I remember who she is. I can wait for that, too, it’ll come to me eventually. She might be the young nurse who says _hey_ too much.

“Um.” Cynthia exchanges a side-eyed uncertainty with Jamil. “Ethan, did you know Marcia? I never saw you guys, like, talk… or anything.”

Again, not here to make friends. I’m not sure I should repeat the question. It’d be rude. I look down at the book in my hands instead, which is less rude and more my usual flavor of crazy.

I’m fine with crazy, minus being completely trapped, helpless, drugged into a stupor and separated from my demon. I am oddly fine with all that, and knowing it’s the drugs making me feel that way is less alarming than it should be. Probably because of the drugs.

“Her room is near mine,” Jamil says. “I could show you.”

Cynthia’s lit up, poorly-suppressed smile makes him nervous enough without me staring. I close the book and set it aside. Getting to my feet serves as my answer, even though I suspect this is a very strange first date. I wonder if explaining he’s not my type will be necessary. It wouldn’t be a lie either, even if it’s not the whole truth. I study his wide shoulders and thick waist as I follow him through the ward. He’s not bad-looking. He even has dark eyes.

Actually Cynthia’s a troublemaker and drags Jamil along with her most of the time. I bet between them I could get Jamil alone enough to try choking him. I’m not sure I could. He’s built like a linebacker, I might not survive the attempt. I’ve thought of saying it’s my kink. It might buy me enough time, if he thinks I’m that cute. Not that I especially want to murder Jamil. He seems like a nice kid.

My stomach sinks as I realize he’s taking me to the same dormitory wing as mine. Marcia died near me, but my head’s silent. No Cain, not one drop of snarky commentary. I left him behind. I went home. I woke to the sound of my mother saying my name. A scar on my lip, Aidan’s coma, the weeks I spent missing between the crash and being found unconscious in my room -- all these unexplainable, impossible things. My complicated world can’t explain it, and I haven’t bothered to try. It’s gotten me stuck here, in the wrong kind of hospital for people dying.

Or so I thought, until today.

“This is her room,” Jamil says. A smile works a nervous line over his broad face.

I stare at the closed door. “Neat.”

It probably would have been less awkward for him if I’d said nothing. If a ghost or Cain or whatever else is listening though, I have to say something.

“Um, sure. Well, my room’s over here. If you wanted to see it.”

I don’t, especially. I’m sure it’s similar to mine. I let him take me there anyway. Two staff and three other patients are in line of sight of the hallway. If I go into the room with him the door stays open, and someone’s poking in to check on me with clockwork precision. I’m not allowed to do anything unsupervised for long, not even sleep.

“So, um. This is my room.” Jamil flaps a hand at the bed, nightstand, and dresser combination like they’re anything to remark over. It looks identical to my room, only with a messier bed.

“Neat.”

This probably counts as the most words we’ve ever exchanged, even if I’m repeating myself. Jamil’s uncertainty about where to take this next elicits genuine sympathy from me. I wonder if now would the appropriate time to explain he’s not my type, or if that would seem presumptuous. I don’t actually know if he likes me or not, despite the fact I’m pretty sure Cynthia’s teased him about it within earshot. It isn’t like I really pay attention to most of what they say in front of me, or most of what anyone says to me. I don’t want to be here. That’s no secret.

Cooperating might get me out of here. I’ve thought about it. I’ve thought about playing along. Trying to insist I’m not crazy doesn’t work when I can’t and won’t explain anything about what happened to me, where I went, how I got this scar. Dissociative fugue, I think that’s what explanation they came up with for my absence. I certainly wasn’t stupid enough to volunteer that I’d taken a sojourn through the dark, hellish depths of the Otherside in order to free a banished demon.

When Jamil offers, I sit on the bed next to him. I’ll give him credit, he makes a noble effort to remove the awkwardness from the situation. I stare between my knees while he attempts to flirt. I bet he’s wishing Cynthia was here to play wingman for him. I wonder if he’ll realize what a poor life choice he’s making by hitting on a crazy kid, no matter how cute.

One of the staff walks by to check on me, stands around in the doorway for a bit to observe. I’ll probably be asked about this later in therapy. I probably shouldn’t have popped off about being gay, even if it was amusing at the time. That was early in this, before the drugs ended my efforts at being actively uncooperative. Now I’ve switched to passive, apathetic disobedience. It’s somewhat intentional but mostly a consequence of circumstances.

Jamil keeps talking to me until it’s time for group therapy. We walk there together, and Cynthia meets us outside the room with waggling eyebrows and an eager giggle. I bet Jamil would be blushing, if his skin wasn’t so dark.

Group therapy gets followed by another hour in the common room, and then I’m off to my individual therapy. Lunch happens, dinner happens, lights out happens. More sitting and staring fills the time, occasional monosyllable responses or whatever other bare minimum I need to get through the day. I think a lot about how I might manage to kill someone and try not to be tempted by thoughts of killing myself instead.

It’s tempting. It’s so tempting, because suicide would be so much easier than murder. I couldn’t even kill a cat. I realize now that perhaps it would have been smarter to wait before trying to summon Cain. At first my parents were just happy to have me home -- or, my mother, at least, expressed her relief and gratitude that I came home safe. I wonder if my father wouldn’t have preferred I stay a runaway, rather than return a certified lunatic who got caught trying to kill the neighbor’s cat.

A morbid fascination with death is part of my diagnosis, which sems grossly unfair. I’m a necromancer. Interacting with dead things is kinda my thing. I’m not a future serial killer, despite the mounting evidence to the contrary. In theory if I kill Jamil, no one’s even going to notice. Except maybe his parents. And Jamil, I guess.

Lying in bed that night, I stare at the ceiling and think about the dead girl. Sometimes I whisper to myself at night. I’ll whisper to Cain, in case he’s listening. I don’t do it as much anymore. I did it a lot at first, enough I got caught a few times by the overnight staff responsible for ensuring I’m not in here murdering myself or anyone’s pet. Talking to myself gets me extra questions in therapy, so I try not to get caught.

I wonder if Cain’s ignoring me, if he’s decided to wait for a different necromancer. I didn’t exact meet expectations. I’m clearly not very good at this, despite putting in my best effort there at the end. I’m sure I removed the binding for him at least. I freed Cain, he’s free to come find me. Someone died near me. But I guess if he wants to ignore me that’s okay.

It’s not, none of this is okay, but the drugs make it okay. I don’t feel sad or scared anymore, I don’t worry very much about anything. I think about all these painful things, but it doesn’t hurt. I’m not sure I’m capable of feeling things deep enough for it to hurt. I don’t cry anymore, even when my mom comes to visit and starts weeping. I try to do nice things for her, like smile and talk, but it’s hard. I don’t want her thinking I’m mad at her for doing this to me. I understand she wants to help. She’s my mom, and she loves me, I get that. I’m sorry to do this to her, I really am.

I don’t like to think that maybe I really did make everything up, that maybe I really am so insane that I can’t discern reality from imagination. No one’s around to corroborate my story, after all. It’s only sometimes I start to doubt myself, but those are usually the days I spend the most time thinking about killing myself. I’d rather be dead than crazy. I don’t want everything that happened to be a lie. I don’t want Cain to only be a collection of thoughts and feelings I had.

I’m sorry I wasn’t a better necromancer for him. I’m sorry for a lot of things. It’s a sad, sorry life that I’m living. I guess this is what happens to necromancers in my world these days. I guess this is it for me. I guess this is how it is ends.

The next morning at breakfast I decide to go ahead and kill myself. Marcia’s plan seemed to work, so I’ll copy her. I’ll figure out how to hide the pill instead of swallowing. I’ll wait until I have a big pile hoarded. I bet even if someone comes to check on me, I might look like I’m sleeping instead of dying. I’ll roll to my side. I’ll sleep face-down, actually, that’s a good idea. I’ll start sleeping that way now, so it won’t look suspicious to do it later. Maybe I’ll vomit and aphixiate during the night. Looking on the bright side of things, that’s me, always an idealist.

A tray hits the empty table in front of me. I don’t bother to look up. Jamil and Cynthia sit across from me at breakfast. They do the same at lunch and dinner. They usually sit across from wherever I’m sitting.

A girl’s snippy, treble tone grates over the words. “Hey, sweetheart. Miss me?”

It’s not Cynthia. That’s unusual. I lift my gaze to stare at the girl. Mousy brown hair, thin lips, some freckles splattered across the scrunched-up annoyance of a sharp glare. I wonder if I stole this girl’s seat without meaning to. I don’t keep track of who sits where, I just sit at whatever table’s the emptiest.

“You look like shit,” the girl says. She kicks out the chair and slumps into it. The lazy sprawl seems strange to me, it’s a very strange way for a teenage girl to sit in a chair.

I have no idea who this person is. One of the other patients, that’s obvious, but I don’t recognize her from my group therapy or any other session. I’m not sure why she’s sitting with me. It isn’t like we know each other. I’m not here to make friends.

The girl’s frown slips. She leans forward onto her elbows and studies me closely, almost with a sloped look of concern. Her brows are as thin as her lips, they look like the kind that get drawn fuller with makeup, except makeup is on the list of restricted items. No point in looking pretty in a place like this, despite Jamil’s efforts to cruise. Although her eyes are pretty. The rest of her’s not, but her eyes are. They’re brown like her hair, a puppy-dog brown like Aidan’s. That must be why she’s reminding me of someone.

“They really did a number on you, princess.” Her fork waggles into the space between us. “How much of you is left in there?”

I have no idea what she wants with me, asking this kind of thing. What does that even mean? I’m not the only kid drugged like this, why is she picking on me? I turn my head to look at the rest of the cafeteria. I spot Cynthia and Jamil shuffling along the line with their trays. If I stare long enough, maybe one of them will come over here and chase this girl away.

“Hey. Hey, kid.” Her fingers snap. “Ethan.”

I whisk my head around. Tension slacks from her expression and leaves her looking worried again, like this whole exchange is supposed to be happening differently. I’m really not sure what she expected. It’s no secret I don’t want to be here, that I’m not putting any effort into my recovery. I’m the example of what not to do, how not to behave.

Cynthia and Jamil approach with their trays. The girl watches with a wary expression and grips her fork like this might turn into a sudden fight. I hope it does. I hope she stabs me with that fork. I could point out to her where my jugular is, see if she wants to go for it.

“Marcia?” Surprise shimmers over Cynthia’s bland expression. “You’re, uh. Not dead. That’s weir--”

Jamil catches her with an elbow. “That’s great,” he says. His tray goes beside mine. Apparently we’ve upgraded to sitting next to each other after our date. “I’m really glad you’re okay.”

“Sure,” says the girl. Marcia, her name’s Marcia. She’s the dead girl. Who didn’t die, despite rumors to the contrary, so really she’s a failure. I’m taking away her gold star.

Cynthia slides into the seat next across from Jamil. The not-dead girl glances over and then adjusts the way she’s sitting. Thighs together, ankles crossed, less of a sprawl to hog the entirety of available space and more of an demur agreement to take only as much space as needed. It’s such a strange, subtle shift.

Not subtle is the way Cynthia stares at the girl. “Are you friends with Ethan?” she asks. “He was asking about you yesterday.”

Marcia’s shoulders bob in a quick shrug. She chews a big shoved-in bite of toast and then takes another bite, rather than pause to respond. It’s clear she’s not going to. The shrug was her answer. It’s not the answer Cynthia wanted, but it’s the one she’s getting.

I know someone who never answers basic questions in a straightforward way. I know someone who likes to take up a lot of space. I remember a leaned-back smug sprawl in the dark backseat of a car.

“Ethan? You okay?” Jamil leans into my peripheral vision and keeps leaning, like that might change what I’m doing or redirect my attention.

Marcia doesn’t seem to mind that I’m staring at her with a big, dumb grin. She’s frowning across the table at me looking kind of annoyed, maybe amused. The expression’s all wrong in a thin, freckled face, but I know that look. I guess the dead girl gets her gold star back after all. Good for her.


	29. Chapter 29

“Alright, so. There’s the easy way or the hard way.” Cain tosses a balled-up sock up into the air. The rolled together knot of cotton arcs toward the ceiling and descends. It tumbles as a blue dot to follow, but instead Cain eyes the hall.

“I talk us out of here.” Cain snatches the falling sock without pulling his gaze from the door. “Or you talk your own way out, I’ll follow. I can try for the assist, but I’m not sure what good this bitch’s word is going to be about shit inside your head.”

We’re sitting in room thirty-seven, the dead girl’s room, and Cain’s using her body to talk to me. I’m almost tempted to stand in the hallway pointing. Look, the dead girl’s talking to me. A demon’s inside her. I’m a necromancer, this is my demon, I’m not making this up. Do you want to come meet the wizard I know? You’ll probably get stabbed by his demon hunter boyfriend, but that’s only if my demon doesn’t kill you first.

I think Cain asked me a question. “What?”

Cain’s laugh sounds oddly high-pitched and giggly. I’m having a hard time hearing him, understanding him, focusing on what he’s trying to tell me. I’ll do whatever necessary to get out of this place, to make this stop, but I have no idea how.

A soft ball of cotton hits the side of my face. I look down at the wadded sock in my lap. I wonder if I was supposed to catch it.

“Easy way it is,” Cain says.

I lift my head. Cain’s scowl is all wrong, too, in the dead girl’s face. He’s sitting on the floor against the dresser, Marcia’s body arranged in a modest stretch. She looks good, for a dead girl. It must’ve been a clean enough death. I’m glad, that’s nice, I hope she didn’t suffer. Her life hurt enough that she wanted out, I understand that. Maybe I’ll ask Cain about helping her.

Cain watches me with a level frown, a persistent worried line creasing Marcia’s thin brows. In the lull of the afternoon, between lunch and dinner, with Cynthia and Jamil both in session, it’s the stolen hour he’s found to get me as alone as I can be in a place like this. The door stays open, someone checks on me like clockwork, my complicated world wants to keep me here, but Cain’s getting me out. He’s not ignoring me, he’s not waiting for a different necromancer, he’s here to help.

I feel like skipping, shrieking, I want to run along the halls and jump up and down screaming to anyone who can hear that I’m not crazy, I didn’t make this all up, Cain’s real. He’s not a collection of thoughts and feelings inside my head, he’s not a delusion. He’s right here, he found me, my demon found me, and he’s going to help me escape.

Cain looks at the open door and then lifts an appraising, calculated look across the ceiling. “Think there’s cameras?”

I tilt my head back to look up at the ceiling as well. Shaking my head is awkward thanks to the angle.

“Yeah? Good,” says Cain. The bouncing soprano of his voice is disorienting, same as the shape of his smirk within Marcia’s bland features. Cain hoists to his feet and motions me up as well. I stand, and Cain only comes to my shoulder in the dead girl’s body.

“Can’t close the door, body check every fifteen minutes -- Alright. Fuck. Guess the easy way’s a bit harder than I thought.” Cain grins with cocky self-assurance, although the squiggly line between his brows stays in place. I hope he’s not hurt.

“This might get messy. Might not even work, actually, so don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Cain glances at the open door. “Not too late to tell me to fuck off. You sure about this, Abel?”

I’m nodding, but Cain frowns as he watches the agreeable up and down bob. I should say something, ask him to explain or tell him the truth, which is I don’t care anymore. Whatever he has to do, that’s fine. I’m sorry for it, I really am, I don’t want to hurt anyone, but if Cain needs to kill people to get me out of this place -- I’m okay with that. I’m okay with doing whatever it takes to get my life back. All those times I thought I’d rather be crazy than a necromancer, I was wrong. Deeply, irrefutably wrong.

Trying to convey all that to Cain seems impossible. I don’t know what words to use, how they sound or what shapes my mouth needs to make them. Everything I want to tell Cain stretches in all directions like a vast, endless sea, yet no matter how much I scoop it simply leaks and dribbles, refusing to be caught.

“Please,” is what I say. “Cain, please.”

The dead girl’s eyes widen to show white all around the warm, brown irises. It’s hard to tell she’s dead, looking at her up close like this. It’s nearly impossible to tell she’s Cain, given the soft, tender arrangement of her expression. “Alright, kid. Alright. Let’s get you out of here.”

Cain looks sideways to the hall. One of the staff meanders past at a distressingly slow pace. I’m sure I’ll be asked about this later in therapy. I probably shouldn’t be seen talking to the dead girl.

“Don’t let go,” Cain says. “You got that? Don’t let go. Claw my arm off if you fucking have to, just don’t let go. I want this easy.”

The dead girl’s left hand slips into mine -- delicate, thin, with dainty white crescent nails and a soft, smooth palm, but Cain’s strength accompanies the tight, squeezed grip. Less reassuring is the sudden cold sweep, the plunging chaos of sound and sensation unraveling. Bright and dark overlap with jarring urgency. I think I know what’s happening though, as my thoughts and feelings become everything and physical reality melts into nothing.

Clarity strikes with faster and faster frequency in reverse echo of the strobe light flashes. Icy tendrils give shape to the strange, uncomfortable outline of my own body. A disturbing lack of concern collapses into sharpened understanding. I should be panicked, to realize I’m hand-in-hand with a shadowed outline in a shadowed world. I should be alarmed to recognize the Otherside surrounding me, but I’m not. I’m relieved.

The lightswitch-flip of my bright, living world to the dark, sterile nothing of the Otherside matches another flip, a better one, a desperately desired one. Drugged, foggy stupor vanishes. The abruptness hits like a physical slap, a non-literal smack between the eyes to clear weeks of murky, muddled thinking.  

Outlined shadow stands in front of me. I turn my head and recognize very little else, even given the obscuring darkness. The gently-undulating wisps of smoky seem wispier than usual. I’m not sure what that means.

“Cain?” I whisper.

From the shadow in front of me comes a gravel-voiced, “Hey, sweetheart.”

Alarm jolts through me for how exhausted he sounds. Flat, worn, threadbare in ways that hurt to hear. Following close is the realization I can actually hear him now, I can hear Cain’s rough-tongued bite instead of the dead girl’s perky sweetness.

“Cain, what do you need me to do? Besides not letting go, I mean, can I help?”

A pause follows, silence and then the slow rumble of Cain chuckling. He murmurs softly, “Good to know you’re here after all, princess.”

The light, flippant effort does little to mask Cain’s relief, his worry. It’s hard not to throw myself over the petite shadow he’s occupying at the end of our joined hands. It’s hard to stay calm, now that I’m not drugged into stupidity, but I’m trying. I know I can’t panic, I remember when Cain and I did this before, when I obliterated that motorcyclist. Clawing his arm off might literally happen if I’m not careful.

“Fifteen minutes until someone notices you’re missing.” Cain’s quiet tone underscores the chilling urgency. “Let’s make them count.”

The small, girlish outline of shadow steps toward the door. I follow cautiously, unsure of my body. The insubstantial darkness around me lacks definition. It’s as murky and muddled as my thoughts were, leaving me uncertain where I am despite knowing where I must be. I must be walking with Cain along the hall, but it barely feels as if I’m moving at all. It barely feels as if I’m anything besides thoughts and feelings.

Cain tugs on my hand. “Keep moving,” he whispers.

I nearly blurt out _how?_ before thinking better of it. Something tells me it’d be dangerous to start questioning what I’m doing. I should focus on doing it, instead, and not worry about the how of something impossible.

Droning cadence forms a dull awareness of other voices speaking. I keep focused on Cain’s hand, his firm grip, the bone-crushing intensity that reassures me of physical reality. Warbling nonsense gains a sharp increase in volume and proximity.  

Cain stops walking. The shadowed outline trembles and shudders like a videotape turned fuzzy, a shock of jarring lines distorting the basic shape. A stinging discomfort that verges on agony radiates from the tight clasp of our hands for a moment before fading.

“I’m being released today,” Cain declares.

The nonsensical reply carries a bewildered note of doubt.  

“Yup. Today. Right now, I’m being released. You can look it up.” Cain’s pleasant, agreeable tone drips with sarcasm, and I wonder how it sounds coming from the dead girl. He continues in the same mockingly unhelpful way, “First name is shut up and let me go, spelled f-u-c-k y-o-u. Last name is hurry the fuck up, spelled g-o t-o h-e-l-l. Got it? Need me to repeat it?”

Despite the rude horror of what Cain’s said and how, he gets a polite, friendly response from the speaking stranger.

“Yup. Got my suitcase,” Cain says. “I’m ready to go. Car’s waiting on me. Through these doors? So kind of you.”

Cain’s efforts at talking his way out would be amusing, if not for the gritted-teeth snarl bleeding into the words. The longer this goes, the worse he sounds. I hold my tongue and focus only on keeping near Cain as he shuffles around. I can tell he’s trying not to move too much, trying as well to keep his left hand near walls and corners. I’m not sure what might happen if I overlap with one of the shadows that isn’t Cain. Certainly nothing good, nothing I want to have happen.

When Cain starts walking quicker, I try to keep pace. It’s hard, on us both I think, because Cain’s breath picks up a ragged edge. I’m pulling context from nothing and maybe the vague memory of arriving here, a long hallway, closed doors to either side. From the opposite perspective, it seemed a worse walk than descending into the hellish depths of the lake to find Cain.

Excitement shoots through me as I realize how close we are to the outside. It’s not much further, I think. Past the hallway there’s a reception area, maybe a vestibule, I’m not sure I actually remember what it looks like. I was drugged for that part of things.

Cain’s hold provides a continuous, painful reminder of my body. It throbs outward from my palm, the blistering agony almost reassuring. Less reassuring is Cain’s harsh, tormented panting.

“Fuck,” he gasps. The shadow of the dead girl’s head turns frantically. Cain starts walking at what’s barely under a run. “Fucking -- people, everywhere!”

He staggers to an abrupt halt and then darts sideways. The jerking motion pulls at the joined grip of our hands. His fingers tighten around mine. I hear Cain grunt, but the interlaced knot stays strong. I try desperately to remember what’s around the hospital, where Cain must be, but I’m coming up blank. I have no idea where we are. I’m sure it won’t help Cain if I point that out.

Cain stumbles to a stop. He hunches over, staticky and wavering in a way that’s terrifying. I don’t want to know what happens if Cain lets go or disappears on me.

He growls something that might be a name,  an endearment, or profanity. It’s a warning and question in one either way.

“Ready,” I tell him.

Here to there transition abrupt like blinking brings me back to reality. Sunshine, warm pavement, the unpleasant aroma of grime and trash. The nook behind a dumpster provides temporary shelter for us, a small sliver of shadow that Cain’s found tucked aside from the bustle of city streets.

More disorienting than the abrupt return to my living, breathing world is the necessity of becoming a living, breathing thing once more. I struggle to find and set a smooth rhythm for my lungs.

Cain's hand slips from mine. He drops to the ground and braces an elbow into the pavement. Hoarse, hacking coughs shake the dead girl’s slight frame, and it’s her pitched groaning I hear instead of Cain’s deep rumbling. The tormented from Cain shatters into something wretched and wet. I look down. He’s coughing blood. That can’t be good, nothing can be good about the splatter of crimson ruin. The dead girl’s thin nails dig into the filthy alley pavement as Cain gasps and chokes. I hope he’s okay, even though I’m sure he’s not. I’m sure he’s hurt, it’s pretty obvious he’s hurt.

The sluggish, numb trickle of my thoughts should be more alarming. I’m with it enough to register a lot of deep concern without actually feeling worried or scared. I feel fine. It’s awful for Cain that he’s suffering like this, but my spaced out, drugged stupor forms an inescapable cage of apathy.

I look along the alley. One side dumps into the street while the other end stretches toward a parking lot. A spin of sirens nearby stirs nebulous concepts of further concern. I wonder if I’ve been noticed missing yet. Probably, they’re probably searching the hospital for me right now with low-key urgency. They’ll look in the library, the day rooms, creative therapy, they’ll check my room and maybe Jamil’s room, maybe Cynthia’s room. It won’t take long to figure out I’m not in any of them.

Cain sucks in a ragged breath and shudders it out, more or less smooth. He pushes upright and wavers into a heavy lean against the wall. He’s shivering head-to-toe despite the strong, sunny warmth.

I spent long enough thinking about it that the question comes easy. “Are you okay?”

“Peachy keen, sweetheart.” Cain’s sharp grin lacks edge in the dead girl’s freckled face. He spits a frothy mouthful of scarlet saliva. Flecks of blood over his chin disappear into the hard scrub of his hand. He is clearly not okay.

I should have realized what a dumb question it was. I’m not sure why I asked. I try for something else, something more helpful. I can’t think of anything though. I don’t have a car to direct Cain to, no wallet on me, not even my cell phone. Just me, my body, the trashy lounge clothes I’m wearing.  Cain’s in yoga pants and a long-sleeved shirt, he’s in the dead girl’s body. I wonder if there was anything else we should have brought with us. I wish I’d thought to change clothes. I don’t like these sweatpants.

“Sorry,” is what I say. Which is less helpful than if I said nothing. I’m aware of that. I’m aware of how exceedingly useless I am to Cain right now. I’m oddly fine with it, even though I know it’s probably not okay.

Cain’s reply is a shrug, quick and uncomfortable. The gesture’s accompanied by a snapping sound. His shoulder rolling back into socket, I think. I didn’t mean to pull his arm hard enough to dislocate his shoulder, but I must have.

Cain looks along the alley with a plucked-together, worried frown. I think it’s meant to be his scowl. The dead girl looks more dead now, her face thin and pinched, the skin beneath her freckles a waxy-white pallor.

His shoulders roll, his neck pops, Cain shakes himself together and sighs. “Alright. Let’s go.” He staggers sideways like a drunk before managing a straight line.

I follow him with the assumption he knows where he’s going, even though I suspect he doesn’t. He pauses at the alley entrance to take in the stretch of street in either direction. Obviously he’s lost.

My mom has to drive three hours to visit, we’re nowhere near my home or anything I recognize. I went to the art museum here once on a school field trip. I want to say the museum’s somewhere downtown. I’m not sure that’ll be useful to Cain. He probably isn’t interested in looking at post-Impressionist masterpieces, even if the collection here is supposedly one of the best.

Cain checks over his shoulder several times, either to keep an eye on me or to look for anyone pursuing us. Someone’s going to notice me missing, but I guess it’ll take them a while to acknowledge I’m not anywhere inside the hospital. It’s a very secure building, a lot of locked doors and key cards needed, a lot of people supervising the exits. It’s not possible to walk out in the middle of the day. Sneak out at night, maybe, but simply walking out the front door in broad daylight? Not possible. It’ll take them a while to realize I’ve done the impossible. I wonder if anyone will be surprised. They shouldn’t be. I’ve made a life for myself out of doing the impossible.

“Jackpot,” Cain says. He grins over his shoulder at me, but I have no idea what he’s spotted that will help us. I don’t see any tarp-covered retro sports cars, no massive black SUVs, not even a rumbling old sedan. It’s just hospital complex stuff, pharmacies, business towers, residences, just a crammed accumulation of a strange city street.

Cain leads me to a set of revolving doors and makes sure we’re not separated for even the short sweep into the lobby. I’m not sure what he thinks might happen. Maybe I’m just so out of it that he’s worried I might wander off in the wrong direction.

The awkward shuffling spits us out into a hotel, that’s what Cain’s found. There’s a tasteful armchair arrangement and complimentary coffee bar. I can see the glass-encased business center. Pleasant music plays. It’s a nice hotel that Cain’s found.

He walks to the front desk. I start to drift after him, but Cain glances back  As the front desk clerk approaches, Cain’s eyes flick to the coffee bar. His head nods that way as well, rather insistent. I have no idea what he wants with coffee, but I guess I can get him some.

Cain watches me leave before turning his attention to the front desk clerk. A brittle, cheerless smile spreads across his face. I can’t quite hear what he says, but I’m sure it’s rude and demanding despite the pleasant, drifting tones. The dead girl’s voice shaping Cain’s words is too strange, so I’m glad to be over here messing around with a paper coffee cup.

I have no idea how Cain likes his coffee. Sugar and cream? Just sugar? Just cream? Straight black? As I pick up an artificial sweetener packet and flip it around in my fingers, I realize Cain probably doesn’t want coffee. He just wants me out of the way. He’s walking around in a dead girl’s body, but I’m the weird-looking one. I probably look exactly like what I am, an escapee from a juvenile psychiatric ward, whereas Cain barely looks dead. No one’s going to look at Cain and assume he’s a demon possessing a corpse. That would be crazy.

When Cain comes over to collect me, I’ve got the useless coffee no one wants and he’s got a hotel key. He waggles it at me with a grin. “Guess what, sweetheart? Indoor pool. Won’t that be nice?”

I can’t believe Cain’s suggesting we go for a swim. I don’t have a swimsuit, I’m sure he doesn’t, I don’t even want to go swimming. I barely want to be holding this coffee cup, but I carry it into the elevator with Cain all the same. Maybe I should drink the coffee, maybe it’ll help me feel more alert. I doubt it. I doubt antipsychotic tranquilizers can be negated with a few sips of French roast.

“Figure we’ll go tonight,” Cain says. He pokes the elevator button for the fifth floor.

For a lack of better response, I hold out the coffee cup. Just in case.

Cain glances over with a strange expression, like he’s unsure of what I’m offering him. Surely paper coffee cups were invented before Deimos killed Cain in the seventies. I push the sliding cover on the lid, like maybe that’s the part that confuses him, but Cain doesn’t make an effort to take the cup from me. I guess he doesn’t want coffee. I suspected as much.

The elevator opens. We step out into the landing. Cain checks the room number written on the keycard sleeve and then leads the way to our room. I’m curious how he managed to talk his way into this. Probably the same way he talked his way out of the hospital. At least no one’s died yet, except Marcia, but her death wasn’t my fault.

Cain frowns as he examines the door handle. He stares at the keycard and then checks around to make sure I’m the only one watching him get outwitted by technology.

I realize I should help him at the same time Cain figures it out. He taps the card around at the handle enough trying to find a slot that he inadvertently sets off the sensor. The indicator the light switches from red to green with an accompanying metallic click.

He shoves the door open and motions me through. He closes the door once I’m inside, which is a little concerning, it’s a lot concerning, except I hear him unlock the door almost immediately. He pushes the door open, closes it, waits for the lock to reset, and then unlocks it once more. Cain’s playing with the lock now that he’s figured it out.

“Well, that’s bullshit,” Cain says. He comes into the room finally, closes the door with both of us in the room.

There’s two beds, a desk, an armchair, the television above the cabinet likely containing the mini fridge, and a window above the air unit. It’s all very nice, almost luxurious, clean and cozy, colorful, warm, it’s a vast improvement in every way from the hospital. The beds are covered in fluffy white comforters with a narrow strip of decorative bedspread across the foot. I sit on the closest one.  

Cain goes to the window first and draws the curtains closed. He tosses the room key on the desk. Something about the situation tickles the back of my mind, the clear-thinking parts buried under all the drugs. Something about me and Cain and a hotel bed.

I stare at Cain. Am I going to have to explain that the dead girl’s not my type? I’m not sure which bothers me more, that Cain’s body is female or that it’s a corpse.

Cain regards me with a steady frown and crossed arms. “If I fuck off for a bit, are you going to do something stupid?”

I shake my head. I can’t think of what possibly stupid thing I could do in the hotel room by myself. I don’t plan on leaving. I’m fine waiting here. I don’t want to get caught, I understand the risks.

“Good,” he says. Cain looks to the other bed and then turns his head to look at the entry.

I watch as Cain explores the room. He finds the mini-fridge and microwave in the television cabinet. He checks the door and slides the chain into place. Next he pokes into the bathroom and toggles the light switches. I hear him run the sink and turn on the hair dryer. He walks back out and pulls open the closet door.

“Fantastic,” he announces. I’m not sure what about an empty dry-cleaning bag and some wooden hangers he thinks is so great. Maybe demons like small, enclosed dark spaces. I’m not sure why else Cain would go inside the closet. That seems a strange place for him. Even stranger is hearing him call, “Holler if you need me.”

I sit there for a minute or two, but nothing happens. Cain’s inside the closet, or maybe it’s like Narnia in there now. I’m not sure which is more disturbing, the idea that Cain’s walked through the closet to somewhere else or that Cain’s just standing inside the closet for unknown reasons. I’m both confused that Cain hasn’t explained this and completely understanding of the fact he hasn’t. I might not understand the explanation if he tries. I might forget it in a few hours.

Eventually I get to my feet. I walk over to the closet and listen at the door for a bit. Cain’s quiet, if he’s in there. The idea that he might not be is terrifying. Maybe if I open the door that’ll be enough to convey to him I’d prefer we stick together right now.

I open the closet door. There’s a body wedged into the corner like a hastily-hid murder victim. Pasty-pale skin, a glassy stare in a stiff expression, withered cheeks and hollow sockets, slacked-open jaw. The dead girl looks incredibly dead without Cain inside her. He left the body wadded on the closet floor like a cheap suit.

A scream chokes in my throat. I stagger back from the grim discovery and slap at the closet door enough times it swings closed.

Not looking at the dead girl is immensely calming. The fact that I’m drugged is calming. That I’m sharing the room with a corpse, a dead thing’s body that Cain stole -- not so calming. I decide to sit in the armchair. It puts me in the corner furthest from the closet.

I turn on the television. Everytime I look away from the closet, I think I see movement from the corner of my eye. I start staring at the door, rather than the television. I’m pretty sure the dead girl’s body isn’t going to crawl off without Cain, but I’ll keep an eye on it until he returns. Just in case.


	30. Chapter 30

When a thumping noise comes from inside the closet, I’m ready. I’m not entirely sure what I’ll do to stop the dead girl, but I’m ready to try. Screaming probably won’t work, probably a good idea not to scream when the closet door cracks open and the dead girl’s body flops to the floor.

“Motherfucker,” the body groans.

Definitely Cain, even in such a trembling, whiny high-pitched voice. He pushes from the floor with thin, shaking arms. Even from the corner I can hear his ragged breaths. Cain claws at the door knob to gain his feet. I’m already on my feet, upright and staring rather than staring while sitting.

Cain glances over and yelps sharply, a bitten-off shriek of surprise. I guess he wasn’t expecting to find me watching him so attentively.

“Goddamn, Abel. You, uh…” Cain gestures, but I’m not sure what he means. He follows it up with a forced-casual, “Hey.”

He rolls his neck, twists at the waist, Cain shifts and stirs like adjusting an ill-fitted suit. I suppose given how he ditched the corpse and then returned to it, that’s accurate. Even with Cain back inside her, the dead girl looks dead. Maybe it’s because I saw her empty and exceptionally corpse-like, but I can’t look at Cain and see anything other than a dead thing. A waxy-skinned, hollow-eyed, sunken-cheeked dead thing walking toward me.

Cain hesitates halfway to me, in the passage of space between the foot of the bed and the television cabinet. I’m cowering behind the armchair, wide-eyed and tensed to run away except there’s nowhere to go. I don’t really want to run from Cain. I know Cain’s inside the dead girl. I should probably convey that to Cain, rather than shove myself into the corner like I might disappear through the wall if I try hard enough.

“Okay,” Cain drawls warily. He doesn’t try to get closer. Nothing’s different since he was here last except for the television playing, but he checks anyway. Cain drags his gaze over the screen briefly before glancing at the locked and chained door. He’s looking for what else in the room could terrify me besides him.

I should explain I know it’s him. Cain looks so unsure of this situation that I hate it, I hate everything about Cain standing there looking lost. I’m sure he hates just as much the way I look, how I’m head-to-toe shaking at the idea of the dead girl getting any closer to me.

“H-hi.” I sound ridiculous, squeaky with fear and trembling. What I’m stammering is equally ridiculous. “Hi, Cain.”

A relieved grin cracks the dead girl’s glazed expression. “Hey, sweetheart. Ready to go swimming?”

I can’t believe Cain was serious about that. I shake my head. I don’t have a swimsuit. I don’t want to go swimming. An indoor pool does sound nice, but I don’t want to leave the room. I want Cain to go away again and come back in his own body, that punk rock idol body of his that I pulled from a lake. Surely he can find it for me, bring it here. I don’t want Cain inside a corpse anymore.

“Yeah?” Cain tips his head to the side. “Sure you do. Indoor pool, heated and everything.”

I shake my head. I don’t care if it’s a heated pool, I don’t want to go swimming. I don’t even have a swimsuit. I’m not skinny dipping with a corpse either, no thank you, that does not sound fun.

A hint of annoyance pulls the corner of Cain’s mouth. “Sweetheart,” he growls. He stops himself, grits a terse smile at me instead. He forces brittle-soprano niceness past a clenched jaw. “I wrecked this body getting you out, it’s not lasting me much longer. I need another one. Got it?”

Slowly I nod. I understand Cain needs a body to use. What I don’t understand is what swimming has to do with getting Cain a new body. Are we going to drown someone at the pool? I’m not sure I’m really prepared to assist Cain in a homicide. It seems excessive.

Cain matches my slow nod. “Okay,” he says. “We agree I’m getting a new body. Great. And, I’m guessing, Princess Abel doesn’t want me hitting up the bar to hunt fresh meat. Not that you’d stop me. Much fun as that idea is, I’m not listening to you bitch about it later.”

I’m not sure I like the patronizing tone, but I understand why he’s upset with me. I actually don’t think he sounds that angry. Desperate maybe. I wonder if he’s hurt, if he’s going to start coughing blood. I look at the carpet. The dead girl’s wearing plush house slippers, not even real shoes.

“For fuck’s sake,” Cain gripes. “Easy way or hard way, Abel, and I guarantee you’re not going to like the easy way this time. No matter what we’re getting me a new body right the fuck now. Got it?”

Okay, now he’s just being rude. It’s not my fault I’m useless right now. I did my best, I tried, but I’m only seventeen years old. I’m a minor for another two months. In my world, that means my parents have every right to lock me up somewhere against my will. I know I’m a necromancer, but I can’t kill people. I don’t even like horror movies. I couldn’t kill a cat, despite having the neighbor’s cat and my mom’s kitchen knife and no one around for hours. I’m squeamish trying to kill spiders, I usually just let them go outside. There are no such things as necromancers or demons, from any perspective besides mine. In my world, I’m crazy, no matter how many dead things try telling me otherwise.

“ _Ethan_.”

Cain snaps his fingers, even as the dead girl’s stringy sweetness pleads. My gaze skips from house slippered feet to a narrow freckled face that’s all wrong. Busted capillaries form a gruesome crimson pool in one of the corpse’s milky brown eyes. Cain points at the door without taking his gaze off me.

“Summoning time, sweetheart. Please tell me you know what the fuck that means.”

I’m not sure I do, but I nod anyway. When Cain takes a step toward the door, I take a matched step from the corner. He retreats as far as the door itself without turning to watch where he’s going. That’s fairly impressive to me, because I have to look at the armchair and bed both to avoid tripping over them.

“Okay,” Cain says. He slides the chain from the lock. “Get towels.”

Even without his head nodding at the bathroom I know where to go. He doesn’t need to be that patronizing, I’m aware of how a hotel room functions. I understand the concept of swimming, I know what we’re doing, I’m just murky on the specifics of why. Cain should understand that, he thought the plastic card went into a slot to open the door, like a key, only he didn’t realize it worked on a sensor. I bet he still doesn’t fully understand how it works. It must seem a bit like magic to him.

I’m holding an armful of towels when Cain calls, “Sweetheart, you look fine. Let’s go.”

I’m not looking in the mirror, no way, I know I look completely crazy in these stupid elastic-waist sweatpants and zoned out blank nothing on my face.

Soon as I’m back in the entry, Cain pulls the door open. I shuffle sideways to avoid touching any part of the dead girl, Cain possessing her or not. I can barely look at this walking, talking, animated corpse. The cat at least did look kind of cute, for a dead thing. The dark fur hid all the wrong, broken ruin much better than the dead girl’s devastated wreck of bloodshot eyes and chalky complexion. Marcia would serve as a great anti-drug poster child right now. We both would, I guess.

In the elevator, Cain stands by the panel. I stand in the corner. I’m not sure if the silence is awkward for me, but it might be for Cain. The sideways cut of his gaze stays sharply focused on me. Obviously the air’s not really as thick as the bundle of towels I’m holding, it just seems that way. I look anywhere that’s not at the dead thing.

Cain checks the quiet hotel lobby from the elevator landing. I stay in one place for him, so he doesn’t have to take his eyes off me long. I should probably let him know that I won’t run, that I’m okay going for a swim. I’ll cooperate with Cain. I’ll help him.

I have no idea what time it is, how long I spent waiting for Cain in the room. The time might have been on the television at some point, but I wasn’t looking. I’m looking now for a clock and don’t see one, but it’s dark outside and a late, lonely kind of quiet throughout the hotel. Brass placards on the wall tell Cain where to go, he just has to read and follow the arrows to navigate without me.

Through the glass door, I can see the kidney-bean shaped pool. There’s a hot tub, too, which seems nice until I remember I don’t have a swimsuit and Cain’s wearing a corpse like a suit. We’re alone at least. A posted sign warns us about the lack of a lifeguard on duty.

As I stand hugging the towels, Cain circles the pool area. The rippling turquoise waters seem bright and welcoming, but there’s something dark and foreboding about what we’re doing. Cain looks so serious, he’s concentrating intently on checking every hatch, panel, and door for whatever reason. I’m not sure what he’s looking for, but I might have an idea. I think he’s making sure we’re alone. He doesn’t want any witnesses for what we’re about to do.

That thought’s confirmed by the sudden plunge of darkness. Cain’s found the breaker. The red glow of the exit sign and scant pour of hall light from the glass door cast the water into nightmarish gleaming. Cain returns to where I’m standing but stays well out of arm’s reach. Considering how I turn shivery and terrified when the walking corpse gets near me, that’s nice of him.

“Drop to your skivvies, Abel.”

I am not taking off my clothes, that is ridiculous. I glance at the swimming pool.

“Abel, sweetheart, clothes off,” Cain says. A note of warning carries in the saccharin tone. When I still don’t listen, when I just stare at the pool, Cain snaps his fingers and voice alike. “Clothes, now.”

I guess I don’t want my clothes wet, if I have to get in the water, and I’m pretty sure I don’t have a choice about that. I guess going for a swim in my underwear will be okay, boxer shorts are kinda similar to swim trunks. I put the towels down on one of plastic lounge chairs. I slip the t-shirt over my head, nudge out of my shoes, create a neat and tidy pile of shapeless, bland grey clothing.

Cain leads me to the ladder. Under his supervision I descend into the warm, pleasant water. The heavy smell of chlorine hangs in the air. “Okay,” he says, once I’m in the pool. He walks along the edge to the deep end and motions me to follow. I feel a bit like a trained dolphin swimming to where he points me. Once I’m in place and treading water, he nods. “Okay,” he says again. “Start summoning. I’m ready.”

The corpse stands there staring at me. I lazily stroke my arms through the water and stare somewhere just to the left of the dead girl’s face. “What?”

“Oh, goddammit.” Cain’s mouth flattens, he crosses his arms. “Abel, you stupid motherfucker. Do you know what the fuck’s happening?”

It’s probably frustrating for him that my head shakes. I’m with it enough to know how out of it I am, but that’s not helping me with anything. I’m in the swimming pool like he wanted, but I’m not sure why. I wish I did. Maybe Cain should try explaining it to me. I’ll do my best to listen and understand him.

Instead Cain takes off his shirt. He slips out of the yoga pants. The dead girl strips to her bra and underwear, her clothes and slippers go beside mine and the towels. Cain’s coming into the pool after me, why is he doing that? I drift backward through the water, slow at first, and then with urgency.

“Abel,” he groans. “Get over here. I’m not chasing you all over the fucking pool, you dumbass piece of shit. D’you know how much easier it’d be for me just to kill some loser, rather than jump through fucking hoops like this? Immensely fucking easier. I should have let your ass rot in kiddie mind prison, to hell with your whispery little bullshit.”

The rant leaves him breathless and shaking, chest heaving like he might collapse. The tight clench of his jaw makes every forced word sound pained. He’s probably hurt, I bet it hurts him to make the corpse move around and talk.

Cain’s tone turns wheeling, desperate. He’s braced on the bottom rung of the ladder, halfway into the pool. “This will take five goddamn minutes if you cooperate, princess. I’ll take you back to the room and leave you alone the whole rest of the night, if you just fucking cooperate for the next few minutes. Okay?”

Yeah, I guess that’s okay. I guess I can close my eyes and pretend Cain’s not a corpse long enough for whatever he needs. I paddle through the water to get closer but stay just out of reach.

Cain keeps a tight-knuckle grip on the ladder with one hand. He gestures with the other. “Come here, sweetheart. Little closer.”

I kick closer and close my eyes, rather than watch the half-submerged corpse. A cold, thin hand encloses my arm, once I’m in range. Cain slips the rest of the way into the water. I let him pull me away from the ladder. It’s much easier with my eyes closed. I should have thought to do that earlier. The feel of Cain’s hand is all wrong, his voice is all wrong, but it’s so much nicer not having to look at the dead girl for this.

“Okay,” says Cain. “I’m going to hold you under the water, and you’re going to stay there until I pull you out. Sound good?”

No. No, it does not. That is a horrible plan, and I’m already shaking my head and trying to pull away when Cain shoves me under. I flail, kick and thrash, it shouldn’t be possible for this suicidal anorexic dead girl to hold me under the water, but Cain’s strong. He’s impossibly strong.

Cain yanks me out almost immediately. The iron band of his grip is firm yet thin, skeletal, and I won’t open my eyes to see the reality of a dead thing trying to kill me.

“Abel. Abel, goddammit.”

He’s snapping at me even as I’m still choking on pool water. Sharp and repulsive chlorine taste clings to my tongue. My eyes are stinging from the brief flicker of dark, wet terror.

“This won’t work if you fight me,” Cain says. He’s breathing hard like it’s a struggle, we both might drown in this pool. “Calm the fuck down, sweetheart. Didn’t I just say I’d pull you out? You’re fine.”

Nothing about this is fine. Cain’s trying to kill me.

“Five minutes, max. Close your eyes, relax, think nice thoughts of putting that fluffy bed upstairs to use. I’m not going to let you drown, Abel. Trust me.”

I cautiously open my eyes, but there’s nothing nice about a corpse swimming, no matter how gently the dead girl’s voice pleads with me. I flinch my eyes shut with a quick nod.

This time I don’t resist when Cain guides me under the water. I’m not sure I can hold my breath for five minutes, but I’ll try. Five minutes seems excessive, I’m not sure I can even hold my breath for more than a minute. Maybe forty seconds at best. I should keep count, how long has it been?

I squirm against Cain’s hold as the first bubbles escape. Five minutes is much too long to wait, I’m not even sure how many seconds that is off the top of my head. If I wasn’t drugged, maybe I’d know it, same as I’d know how me drowning is going summon Cain a new body.

My lungs burn and strain for air. I twist and whine a stream of bubbles. I try to ignore the uncomfortable drive of panic. Cain said he wouldn’t let me drown. He sounded like he meant it. I suppose Cain doesn’t want me dead -- I’d be dead already several times over if that was all he wanted from me. He never would have saved my life in the first place, after Aidan hit me with his car.

Desperation claws at my throat with the need for air. My eyes flash open, but the dark sting of water forces them shut again. Three hundred seconds, that’s how long five minutes is. I definitely can’t hold my breath for three hundred seconds, I can’t even hold it for however long it’s been already. I'm gulping and choking on pool water like that's the solution to the bursting crush of suffocation. I really hope Cain wasn’t lying to me. Cain said he’d pull me out of the pool, that he wouldn’t let me drown. I trust Cain meant that. I trust Cain knows what he's doing. I just wish I did. 


	31. Chapter 31

I’ve never been drunk, but this is what I imagine a hangover would feel like. I’m only the awareness of my battered body and a bed, how much I don’t want to wake up feeling this horribly sick. My stomach’s churning like I might vomit, and I really hope I don’t, because I can’t remember why I’m waking up feeling sick. I’m not even sure I know whose bed this is. I hope it’s mine, if I’m going to puke all over it.

Any number of terrible reasons to feel sick, and I’m thinking of them all as I try to think of what the last thing is I remember. I come up with mostly murky memories of the hospital, so maybe this is food poisoning, except for the sharp sting in my eyes, throbbing ache in my head. A repulsive bleach taste on the back of my tongue is what reminds me of the swimming pool -- of the summoning. Of Cain.

I push upright, realize quickly Cain is nowhere in sight. The muffled rush of the shower tells me where he must be, if I vaguely remember him carrying me down a long hallway last night. I desperately want to say I can trust a memory of being carried by Cain.

Speaking is a dry torture. “Cain?” It's mouthing it only, no sound at all.

I try to swallow together moisture. I’ll take a hangover for the drugs wearing off enough that I’m keeping actual thoughts together. I’m desperate to remember anything else that I can about last night, everything that’s happened since Cain found me. My memories are a scrambled, foggy mess, but Cain found me. He’s here.

In my memory of being carried, I was dressed. I’m still dressed, in the very same clothes. Shapeless grey sweatpants and an equally boxy, bland t-shirt to match. No underwear, and I’m on top of the bed. I’m not even under the blankets. It’s the other bed that’s rumpled, sheets tossed back and pillows scattered.

The alarm clock on the nightstand tells me what the drawn curtains don’t, which is that it’s a little past eight in the morning. I wonder if the hotel has free breakfast, which is an absurd thought to have when I need to find Cain -- I need to confirm it’s really him, and not Marcia’s dead body.

I force myself out of the bed, though it’s a slow effort with lots of long pauses. The vertigo and nausea are probably from the shock of quitting my meds cold turkey, or maybe it’s from all that swallowed chlorine. I vaguely remember coughing up pool water, Cain’s rumbling laughter accompanying the slap of his hand on my back. In comparison, my hypothermic dive at the lake seems pleasant. This disastrous summoning has left me feeling wrecked, even without the drug hangover.

I’m somewhat loopy, but I feel light-headed and silly like with a cold, rather than wrung out like a dishrag, dead-brained worse than Marcia’s rotting corpse. Horrible memories of interacting with Cain while he was possessing her rise to the surface of my thoughts. I try to dismiss them, before the room-spinning nausea worsens.

“Cain?” It’s a sandpaper-rough whisper, I’m sure he can’t hear me over the shower. Assuming he’s in there. Assuming the summoning worked, but I can’t imagine why a corpse would need to take a shower. I don’t want to imagine a corpse taking a shower.

I keep a hand on the wall for balance as I stand in the entry, stare at the partially-closed bathroom door. What if it’s not Cain, what if it’s the corpse? What if all my memories are wrong, or what if this is an exceptionally vivid dream? I’m disoriented enough for this to feel like one, or perhaps everything that happened since leaving Cain on the Otherside was a dream, a nightmare of heartbreak and fear.

Louder, voice cracking with the effort. “Cain!”

The water cuts off. A man’s voice calls sharply, “Abel?” It sounds like him, snarling and harsh, demanding, definitely Cain’s voice. I hear the fast metallic slide of the curtain hooks over the bar. The door jerks open.

Cain appears dripping wet and soapy, streaks of white foam dribbling over his shoulders and arms. His dark hair hangs in heavy clumps, it plasters over his forehead to nearly obscure the furious plunge of his scowl. He’s ready to hit something, murder someone, I think I scared him with shouting. The quick dart of his gaze takes in the closed and chained door, the empty room. The tight fury of his expression eases when he sees we’re alone.

It’s really him. He’s here. I can’t stop staring at Cain’s body. His living, breathing, punk rock idol body. He’s not a corpse, not a suicidal girl with mousy brown hair, a pinched face, dark-circled eyes starting to decay. He’s flared nostrils and a gleaming glare, lean muscles and dusky-tan skin, black body hair with clinging water droplets.

I don’t even know what to say, what to do, it’s such a shock to see Cain. The cuts are healed on his arms, they’re gone entirely, he’s head-to-toe unblemished skin. He looks just as he did when I pulled him from the lake, only magnitudes warmer. Behind him thick steam pillows the air and fogs the mirror.

Cain eyes me warily. “What?” It’s rude, patronizing, neither amused nor annoyed. Cain seems almost concerned as he asks, “You didn’t open the closet, did you?”

That tells me where Marcia’s body must be. My skin crawls at the idea of a corpse in the room. I recall too vividly what she looked like, both with and without Cain possessing her. I flick a quick look to the shut closet door before glancing up at Cain. He’s watching me with a frown, equal parts frustrated and worried. He thinks something’s wrong. He thinks something’s wrong with me, specifically, something he can’t help me with since the problem’s in my head.

Cain doesn’t realize I’m tongue-tied with nerves and not drugs. He thinks I’m zoned out like I was yesterday, and remembering all that mushy grey not-actual memory of being sedated is horrendously uncomfortable. It’s as uncomfortable as the feel of these shapeless grey sweats, as not knowing what to say. I have to say something. I can’t keep staring at Cain, I have to say something to him.

“You’re real. You’re here.”

Blurts right out of me, I can’t stop myself from saying something stupid. Cain shouldn’t look surprised I’m saying something stupid. It was weeks and weeks of doubting myself, being made to question my sanity by virtue of being labeled insane, and then medicated into submission when I refused to break.

I’ve surprised Cain enough that he blurts out something obvious in return. “You’re awake.” A hasty, jagged sneer wipes the relief from his expression.

“Yeah. Yeah, I am. I woke up feeling awful.” Each word burns my throat raw. There’s nothing to swallow, but I try.

Cain smirks and takes a step of retreat into the bathroom. He turns on the sink. “I bet. You swallowed half the pool, dumbass.”

Cautiously I follow Cain into the bathroom as he gets back into the shower. He pulls the thick plastic curtain closed. I look to the running faucet and realize it’s Cain’s way of offering me a drink. There are two plastic-wrapped cups beside the sink to use. That both cups are still plastic-wrapped makes me curious if Cain’s been drinking straight from the faucet. It seems like something he might do.

I spot my underwear draped over the towel bar above the toilet. It must’ve been soaked after swimming. I’m glad Cain didn’t make me sleep in wet underwear. I suspect he needed to wrangle me into my clothes after dragging me unconscious from the pool. I don’t have a memory of dressing myself, that’s for sure.

I drink the cool tap water slowly, taking small sips to let my stomach adjust. I’m not sure how much of the summoning last night I actually remember, before or after my near-drowning. I’m not sure how much of anything I remember of the last six weeks. I study my own reflection in the condensation-fogged mirror. I look like trash and know it, with red-rimmed, puffy eyes and pasty-pallor complexion. Suppose for being half-drowned and half-drugged, I look okay. Inside my head is a jigsaw puzzle of memory disassembled and shaken, maybe a couple pieces lost forever, but I guess I’m okay.   

“Cain?”

Through the translucent curtain I see Cain turn some. The rough sound of his snarl lifts like a question.

I don’t even know where to begin, which question of the stored multitude to unleash first. I have so many clear-thinking thoughts that it’s overwhelming, exhausting. Now that I’ve satisfied my curiosity about Cain, I just want to crawl back into bed and sleep off the drugs. I’ll take feeling sick like this over being tranquilized into oblivion, but it’s a miserable trade all the same.

“Is Marcia’s body in the closet?”

Not a question I really need answered, nor one I couldn’t answer myself just by checking. I have no idea why I wasted a golden opportunity on a dumb question like that. I expect Cain to laugh mockingly and answer with thick, scornful sarcasm. Instead Cain hums agreeably and ducks his head under the shower spray.

I set the empty plastic cup on the counter. I find the sink much easier to stare at than the outline of Cain’s body in the shower. “I’ll shower when you’re done,” I announce. “Um, I’m going to lie down. I feel sick.”

“Mmhm,” Cain affirms. Half-distracted, maybe, or simply unconcerned. I’m not sure, it’s a strange response from Cain.

This entire exchange strikes me as odd. I don’t want to admit how disappointed I am that Cain didn’t offer to have me join him in the shower, even though the prospect is daunting for many reasons. Perhaps I’m more relieved than disappointed. It’s hard to say.

I’m equally unsure what to make of the two beds, that I woke fully clothed on top the bedding, whereas Cain clearly got cozy in the other bed without me. He just dumped me on the bed unconscious. A hard, difficult search of my memory pulls up the faint echo of a desperate promise, Cain wanting five minutes from me for the summoning in exchange for the rest of the night.

I suppose Cain kept his word. He took me back to the room and left me alone. And I might’ve lost consciousness, but I didn’t drown. I’m definitely alive for everything to hurt this much.

I find the television remote and put on a morning news program, anything to help distract me from how awful I feel. Lying down helps with my headache a fractional amount, closing my eyes helps stop things from spinning sideways. The water I drank forms an uncomfortable lump in my sore stomach.

I try to focus on the positive, which is I’m not drugged anymore, and that Cain’s with me. Either one of those facts thrills me, and having both of them is almost too good to be true. There’s even a hot shower and bed for Cain. That’s nice. I bet this was a nice summoning for him.

“Abel.”

Rough-callused heat cups my cheek. A soft growl demands again, “Abel. Hey.”

Did I fall asleep? I must have. I open my eyes to find Cain leaned over me, expression tense. For a split second I’m confused about everything, including why I’m in a hotel room. I push to my elbow and flash my gaze to the television. It’s the same morning show, I couldn’t have been out long.

Cain pushes my bangs out of the way with the flat of his hand. His palm presses to my forehead. He feels at my neck, presses the back of his hand into my cheek, and then feels again at my forehead.

“You’re sick.”

The snarled words are somewhat questioning. I realize it’s an actual question, the more intently Cain stares at me with his hand plastered to my forehead.

“Am I?” His hand withdraws, and I replace it with my own. I feel okay, my skin’s cool and dry. “Do I have a fever?”

I take in the frustrated twist of Cain’s scowl and realize he doesn’t know, he has no idea, he’s asking me.

“I don’t think I have a fever,” I tell him. “I think it’s just, um, a - a hangover? From the drugs I was taking at the hospital. They’re wearing off.”

I mean this to be reassuring, but Cain’s frown deepens. I make an effort to smile. Maybe that will reassure Cain I’m okay. The line of my smile wavers when I realize Cain’s naked, fresh-clean from the shower, and sitting exceptionally close to where I’m curled on the center of the bed.

I’m already feeling nervous even before Cain orders, “Give me your clothes.”

Carefully I sit all the way upright. I glance from Cain to the door, from Cain to the tightly drawn curtains, from Cain to the other bed. My fingers play along the hem of my t-shirt without lifting it. I’m scared to ask Cain why he wants my clothes. Specifically why he wants them off my body, but I can guess. I can guess why Cain wants me naked.

Well, that’s okay. I guess that’s okay, even if I feel sick and gross inside and out. I didn’t get a shower after nearly drowning, my skin feels dry and tight from the chlorine, same as my eyes and hair, my sinuses are rubbed raw from puking up all the pool water I swallowed. I’m not sure when was the last time I brushed my teeth, probably yesterday at the hospital. But if Cain wants me naked in the bed now that he’s had a hot shower, I guess that’s okay.

The summoning might have hurt him, maybe he’s hurt like before. Maybe it wasn’t nice for him like I thought. I glance at Cain. No squiggly line of pain between his brows. He’s not hurt. He seems impatient. I’m not sure this is okay, but I’m scared to tell Cain that. I’m scared if I say no he won’t care, so maybe it’s easier just to say yes. Slowly I slip the t-shirt over my head.

Cain takes the shirt from me. He disappears into the grey fabric and appears as a damp, dark head and stretching limbs. Cain settles the t-shirt into place over his chest. It fits him better than it fit me.

“Alright, what do you want?” he asks.

“Huh?”

“For breakfast,” Cain says. Like it’s obvious.

“Oh.” Shaky, relieved laughter titters out of me. “O-oh, right. Breakfast. Okay.”

I slip out of the sweatpants and hand them to Cain as well. The fold of my legs and arms provides nothing for modesty. Cain seems unconcerned. He barely seems interested. There’s no leering suggestion in the way he looks me over, only that same impatient scowl.

“You’re staying here.” Cain puts on the sweatpants, which don’t especially fit him, but the elastic waist and shapeless tube legs easily accommodate his taller, wider frame.

“Okay.” I’m not about to insist I walk naked through the hotel lobby to check out the breakfast buffet. “Um, my stomach hurts, so maybe just … some toast?”

Cain nods, firm and intense like my breakfast order is serious business. “I’ll scope the place, while I’m out.” He sounds questioning, despite the bossy tone.

My response is the same compromise between declaring and asking. “Okay?”

Cain rises from the bed and gives me a quick once-over. “I’ll get you clothes.” His head turns to take in the open bathroom door, the spill of light into the entry. “And more towels.”

“Could you get me a toothbrush? And toothpaste?”

“Sure.” Cain shrugs. Surely it’s my imagination that he seems eager to ask, “Anything else?”

“Um.” I try to think quickly. My thoughts aren’t a slow, syrupy drip like they were before, but I’m not firing on all cylinders and know it. There must be something else I want Cain to bring me. I look around the room like that might provide me with an idea. My gaze settles on the closet door. “Are we staying here a second night?”

Cain follows my gaze. His shoulders lift and lower. “Unless you got someplace better in mind.”

I shake my head slightly. I don’t, not right now at least, and it’s exhausting to think I might have to come up with a place later. I’m not ready to think about what comes next. I’m barely managing the present moment. That I haven’t thrown up yet is my top accomplishment this morning. I don’t want to think about needing to accomplish more than that.

Cain snags the room key from the desk. “Don’t open the door. Got it?”

“Okay.” I offer Cain a smile to assure him I’m listening, I’ll do what he says, he doesn’t need to worry. I’m not about to run away from him or let myself get caught by the police.

Cain nods. He slides the chain from the door. The do not disturb card dangles from the outside handle already, Cain checks it anyway, makes certain it’s secure. He sweeps his gaze over the room one last time, like there might be some danger lurking despite his vigilance, and then he steps into the hall. He pulls the door closed. I bet he listens for the tell-tale mechanical whirl before leaving. I remember him figuring out how the lock worked.

I’m not about to declare myself an expert or anything, but I think I’ve gotten a little better at understanding Cain. At understanding everything, really, about him being a demon and me being a necromancer. It’s hard to adjust and remember that, after all that time in the hospital. It’s hard to remind myself that it’s okay, I don’t have to be sacred it’s not real. I’m getting my life back like I wanted.

Since I’m already naked and it’s available, I decide to take a shower. Cain’s left a path of destruction through the tiny toiletry selection. The bottles only have miniscule amounts left. I should have thought to ask him about more shampoo. He used nearly the entire bar of soap, too. I wonder how many hot showers he took.

As I stand there working lather into my hair, I wonder what Cain else wants. In the beginning he wanted to know my name, I gave him my name. He wanted a body, I gave him a body. He wanted a hot shower and a bed, but he managed to acquire that for himself more or less without my help. It’s a bit bleak to realize Cain may not have a use for me anymore. I’m not sure what else I could give him, what he might need from me. Besides the obvious, which suddenly doesn’t seem so obvious.

I needed his help getting out of the hospital. I need his help to get breakfast and find clothes to wear. If Cain never returns to this hotel room, I’m stuck fashioning a toga out of damp towels. I’m stuck waiting to be found by housekeeping or management. I’ll probably get arrested because of the rotting corpse shoved in the closet.

When Cain gets back, maybe I’ll ask him if we can switch rooms. Marcia can have her own room. Maybe we can find a way to give her body to her parents for burial, they’d probably appreciate that. I need to stop thinking about dead things, especially the dead thing Cain used to find me. I’ll lose my accomplishment of not throwing up if I keep thinking about corpses.

I feel so much better after showering that it’s a bit silly. Being clean just feels so good. Every fresh-scrubbed inch feels more like me, inside and out, from soft tousled hair to wiggling toes. I drink another cup of water while I stand at the sink to blow-dry my hair. Afterward the ache in my stomach seems prepared to accept food, which I take a good sign.

I’m burrowed under the blankets with the television off, the room dark and quiet, not exactly asleep when Cain returns. The mechanical whir of the lock and noise of the door latch brings my eyes open, lifts my head from the pillow. The room’s small enough I spot him right away, I don’t have to call out to make sure it’s him.

Cain grins something feral and wild when he notices me watching. “Hey, sweetheart.” He’s cradling an armful of pastries and toting a suitcase. Shoved under his arm is a stack of towels. Cain dumps the suitcase and towels by the door, in the already narrow and crowded entry.

I sit up as Cain gets nearer. He’s brought the toast I asked for, wheat and white both, along with three different muffins and a croissant. He stacks the assorted baked goods onto the nightstand and eyes me suspiciously while he does it. 

“You feeling better?” he asks.

Demands, really, in such a sharp and hostile way, like he’s accusing me of something even though all I’m doing is smiling. A giddy, stupid smile. I’m admiring him, actually, overcome with gratitude that he returned so quickly. I was pretty sure he would, but it’s nice all the same. Part of me was scared he might not.

“Yeah.” I clear a thick clog from my throat and try again. “Yeah. I took a shower.”

The snarl Cain makes in response seems pleased, I think. He pulls from his pocket a plastic-wrapped toothbrush and a tiny tube of toothpaste. Cain dumps both into my blanket-covered lap. From the other sweatpant pocket Cain pulls out a handful of crumpled white paper rectangles.

When they’re summarily dumped into my lap, I realize Cain’s brought me an assortment of individually packaged pills. There’s ibuprofen, antacid tablets, cold and flu tablets, something labeled non-aspirin pain reliever and then aspirin itself. A grab bag variety of medicine, probably acquired from the front desk at the same time as the toothbrush and towels.  

I look up from the tumble of supplies and smile. “Thanks, Cain. This is perfect, thanks.”

The rough tussle of his hand messes up my hair. “Eat something,” he says. Cain points at the crowded nightstand. Unspoken is the assurance I’ll feel better if I do. My stomach agrees with Cain, it rumbles gentle encouragement at the idea of eating. I pick up the blueberry muffin and start nibbling.

Cain returns to the dropped stack of towels. He disappears into the bathroom with them and then comes back to get the suitcase. He slings it onto the foot of the other bed.

“Did you steal that?”

Cain glances over as he unzips the suitcase. I’ve asked a very stupid question, according to Cain’s incredulous expression. Heat suffuses my cheeks. I flinch my gaze down to the blue-speckled muffin in my hands.

I’m aware that we’ve already broken several laws and will likely continue to do so, no matter how much I might want to insist otherwise. Cain doesn’t have any money, doesn’t have a car or even know where he is. Stealing a suitcase to acquire clothes was a fairly creative solution to the problem. I’m not sure I would have thought of it.

I watch quietly as Cain goes through the suitcase. I’m curious how he stole it, where he found it, but I don’t want to annoy him. I’m sure I won’t be able to think of anything clever if I do try speaking. It’ll just be more stupid questions. My sluggish thoughts can only focus on simple, basic things, like wondering if this muffin will stay down, or what kind of clothes Cain would buy for himself if given the opportunity. Probably not an argyle sweater, since he holds it up and then tosses it aside in disgust.

“Boring,” Cain grumbles. He holds up a pair of khakis and looks over at me. His eyes narrow. The khakis get tossed into a different pile than the sweater.

As Cain sorts through the clothes, I finish the muffin. I’m fairly confident it’s going to stay down, too, despite the pained struggle of my sore stomach. I stay hidden in the blankets for a few minutes before realizing I’m being silly, it doesn’t matter.

Cain glances over when I get out of bed. His gaze stays focused on mine, intense and unwavering, questioning. I hold up the toothbrush as a silent explanation. His attention goes back to the suitcase.

When I come out of the bathroom with minty clean teeth, Cain’s trying on some of the clothes. He’s tangled into a plain white undershirt, popping free of it as I watch. He frowns at the tight fit and turns at the waist, twists and flexes. There’s something horrifically familiar about watching Cain try on clothes. I watched him adjust the same way inside a corpse.

That muffin might not stay down after all, if I let myself think too much about the dead girl. I planned to ask Cain about the clothes, if there were any he thought might fit me, but I don’t want to linger on that side of the hotel room. Cain’s bed is nearest the closet, it’s right next to the closet.

The other bed, my bed, it’s next to the armchair and window. I scurry back to it, crawl eagerly under the covers. I burrow down tight into the pocket of warmth and huddle the blankets over my head. It’s a dumb, childish comfort like hiding from the monster in my closet. Precisely like that, I realize, only the monster is entirely too real.

I peek out from the covers. “Cain?”

His head turns. “Hmn?”

“What are we going to do about Marcia?”

Cain lowers the shirt in his hands. He looks from me to the closet. “Dunno,” he says. “Hadn’t thought about it yet. Got any fun ideas?”

He’s mocking me, I think. I’m not in the mood to be mocked, because I meant that question, and it wasn’t a stupid one. It’s a serious question, it’s one I would like him to take seriously. Maybe some of that shows on my face, maybe that’s why Cain’s grin slips. He starts to frown instead, a deep sideways scowl that doesn’t strike me as particularly angry or annoyed.

“You want her out of here?” Cain demands.

I hesitate briefly and then nod, quick and urgent. If that’s an option, then yes, I desperately would like the dead body removed from the room.

Displeased rumbling builds in Cain’s chest. “Fine,” he snaps. “Whatever princess wants. Close your eyes.”

So I won’t see him open the closet. He’s going to do it now, in the middle of the day? Just walk downstairs holding a dead body, carry it to the dumpster, or ditch it on a luggage cart? That doesn’t seem like a wise idea. That seems like a terrible idea.

“Wait,” I say. “Wait, what are you going to do with her?”

“Put her back where I found her,” Cain says. “Unless you got a better idea.”

I don’t, at all, I have absolutely no idea what to do with Marcia’s dead body. Returning her to the hospital seems like a great idea to me, on the surface at least. “Won’t they notice she’s, um.”

“Dead?” Cain gleams together a sly smile. “Sweetheart, that’s not my problem. She was dead before I arrived.”

“No, I mean, if you show up with her body, won’t you get in trouble?”

Cain laughs. Sharp, distinct amusement that leaves him chuckling. “Sweetheart, I’m not going anywhere. She is. Getting her that far won’t be an issue, don’t you worry your pretty little head about that. I got this,” he boasts. His grin takes shape again.

Cain looks like he expects me to be impressed even though I have no idea what he’s talking about. That’s obvious, clearly I have no idea, Cain must realize that by now, except I don’t think he does. Cain assumes I know what I’m doing, what’s happening. No matter how many times I remind him, Cain thinks I have all the answers. His other necromancers did. They bossed him around, asked for a lot more than some toast and toothpaste.

Maybe that’s why he starts to deflate some, starts to scowl. I must not look suitably impressed. Perhaps I look like I’m doubting him because Cain insists, “You want her gone? I’ll get her out.”

I thought he didn’t even want to do this. He seemed unhappy about the fact I wanted Marcia’s body moved, until it became this weird jab at his ego. I’m not sure telling Cain I have full confidence in him would be helpful. I’d probably end up insulting him somehow.

“Okay,” is what I settle on saying. “Okay. Yeah. I want her gone.”

“Great.” He snaps it, peevish and short. “Close your eyes.”

I hesitate. The muffin seems solidly accepted at this point. I’m a little curious how Cain plans to do this, I suppose. “Do I have to?”

“Fuck no,” Cain scoffs and closes his eyes. “Do whatever you want, dumbass.”

His hand lifts. He turns in place and sits on the edge of the bed. I clutch the blankets under my chin, flinch my face into my knees, brace for whatever terrible thing to happen except nothing does. After a quiet, ominous wait Cain’s hand lowers. I’d accuse him of being overly dramatic if I didn’t already know better.

From inside the closet comes a thump. Cain’s lips twitch into a scowl. A second thump, a scraping noise -- limbs against the wall, I realize, the dead girl’s body struggling to move.

Tremors shake through me as I bury my face tighter into my blanket-clad knees. I’m on the verge of sobbing. I lied. I don’t want the dead girl gone. She can stay in the closet, that’s fine, I’ll move.

I hear clawing, a soft snarl from Cain. The latch rattles, the door pushes along the carpet.

Panic lifts my face up. I’m looking for Cain, for escape maybe, for whatever stupid reason I look up and see her, the dead girl. I see Marcia and Cain, both of them. He’s sitting on the bed, eyes closed, she’s crawling her way out of the closet, eyes open.  

I tangle my fingers into the blankets and swallow rapidly. Either vomit or a scream starts to choke from me, slips past my clenched teeth as a low, sick moan. “Nnn-no, no --!” Terror wins over revulsion, my whined protest lifts into a shriek. “Stop!”

Cain’s eyes snap open. The corpse flops.

I cover my eyes. Breath rushes from me in shudders. “Please, stop. Don’t do that. Don’t - don’t do that, please.” I bite hard on my lip to keep it from trembling as part of a wet, futile effort against tears. My voice wavers. “She can stay. In the closet, that’s fine. Please.”

Silence from Cain. The whole room’s silent compared to the fast thrum of my pulse, the quick slice of my breath as I wait.

“Sure.” Sarcastic, snarky just like the way he says, “Whatever Princess Abel wants.”

I realize Cain’s serious as I hear him shove the corpse back into the closet. Cain is entirely serious. He dumped cheap pre-packaged toothbrush and generic toothpaste into my lap, but I could have asked for diamonds. Cain would rob a store for me, get himself arrested or shot doing it. He’d be thrilled for the chance to kill for me. This demon expects me to command him. I'm a necromancer. He’s my demon, and he’ll do whatever I want.


	32. Chapter 32

I spend the morning napping and most of the afternoon as well. It’s on and off consciousness, a strange blur of exhaustion as my body fights free of sedation. Cain’s in the room each time I’m awake, but I’m not sure what to say to him. He’s unsure what to say to me in return or simply letting me sleep, either way he’s quiet. Silent, actually. He could be sulking, after I freaked out on him for trying to move Marcia’s body.

For lunch I split the remaining pastries with Cain. He seems doubtful of taking them from me, so I lie and tell him I don’t like banana nut muffins, I’m not that fond of wheat toast. I don’t want the food to go to waste, I insist that he’s doing me a favor by eating the rest.

Cain shoves cheek-bulging amounts of food in his mouth, barely chews before swallowing. He eats quickly like he expects someone to steal his food, or maybe that I’ll change my mind about him having it. I wonder if he’d growl at me if I tried taking the muffin from his hand.

I bet if I didn’t offer him lunch, Cain wouldn’t have done anything about it. Knowing Cain, he’d eventually complain so it wouldn’t seem like asking, but I could make him starve if I wanted. Cain’s relying on me to call the shots. He’s looking to me for what to do, both in the immediate moment and the long term.

It’s incredibly daunting to realize I’m in charge of Cain. I don’t even know what to do with that level of responsibility. I’ve never even had a pet before, much less a demon at my beck and call like this. I could be wrong, but I don’t think I am. I’m certain I’m right about this. Everything Cain’s said and done confirms it. The moment I gave Cain a body, I gained control over what he does with it.

Currently the body I gave Cain is sprawl over the other hotel bed. On his stomach, pillows bunched under him, feet kicked into the headboard. He’s reading something. I’ve just woken up from a nap, restless and alert in a way that says I’ll stay awake, and he hasn’t noticed yet. Even though it’s late afternoon the room’s dim and quiet, curtains drawn. The bathroom light spills slim shadows to serve as an unobtrusive reading light for Cain.

Cain flips the page. He’s reading the in-room guide, a leather-clad three-ring binder of information I wouldn’t assume he’d be interested in, but Cain seems fascinated by whatever he’s looking at. His rapt expression curls into a smile as he leans closer. I’m desperately curious, but Cain thinks I’m asleep. He probably won’t like it if I pop up with a sudden question about what he’s doing, not when he thinks I can’t see him doing it.  

To let Cain know I’m awake, I roll and stretch with a yawn. It starts as feigned and becomes actual hummed satisfaction. The luxurious hotel bed is delightfully cozy and warm. I’m worried about a lot of things and have a lot of things to worry about, but nothing seems too terribly urgent. Everything seems rather pleasant, and I don’t think it’s the drugs making me feel that way anymore.

I decide to start with that, something stupid, so Cain will know what to expect. “This is nice.”

Cain looks over with a sloped, smug smile. Out of the stolen suitcase he’s found a pair of boxer shorts and a shirt to wear, both a little too small for him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” I sit upright. I’m dressed the same as Cain, only the pilfered clothes fit me better than him. “Yeah. It’s really nice not being in the hospital anymore.”

Amusement snorts out of Cain. His reply is a snarky-sincere, “I bet. That place sucked.”

Without being too obvious about it, I try to see what Cain’s looking at. It might be the room service menu, the vertical arrangement of text looks like a menu from where I’m sitting.

I wonder if he’s hungry. I glance to the clock. It’s pushing five o'clock, and Cain had a bite-sized muffin and two slices of toast for lunch. Who knows if he ate breakfast. I hope he did, but he wasn’t gone long and still had time to get towels, toiletries, and a suitcase. He’s probably hungry. I’m hungry, and the thought of food sets my stomach into greedy churning.

I nearly blurt out, _do you want to order room service?_ before thinking better of it. I decide instead to say, “I’m hungry.”

“Yeah? Alright.” Cain pulls upright. His tone is brisk, bossy -- undeniably eager. “What do you want?”

The enormity of the offer sinks deep. Not just what I want off the breakfast buffet or out of the room service menu, I’m being offered the world on a platter. He’d grumble and complain, maybe argue and tell me I’m stupid, but I could ask Cain for anything. If I asked for my grandmother’s Sunday roast, Cain would probably dig up her corpse to get the recipe.

“Room service sounds nice,” I say.  “Do they have room service?”

A haughty, self-satisfied smirk crosses Cain’s face. “They sure do, princess.” He gets up from his bed and crosses the narrow divide to reach mine. He presents me with the open binder, obviously pleased with himself for having it ready so quickly.

I take the menu from Cain and spread it across my lap. Cain sits on the edge of the bed. I glance up with a brief smile before looking back down at the menu. I have no idea which italicized, snootily described item caught his fancy.

Cain expects stupid questions from me. I decide to go for it. I flash him a soft, uncertain smile. “How much can I order?”

Sharp, cruel laughter mocks me as Cain tosses back his head. He favors me with a wide-edged grin, a tiger sizing up prey. In the dim light of the room his dark eyes gleam. “Sky’s the limit, sweetheart,” he boasts. “You want one of everything brought up?”

The idea’s so ridiculous that I laugh. “What? No! That’d be too expensive.”

“So?”

“Won’t - won’t we get caught? How are we going to pay for this? You don’t have any money. I don’t have any money.”

Cain suddenly looks furious. Brows tight, arms crossed over his chest. I’ve fully annoyed him, nothing amusing about this now.

“Cain, I don’t have any money,” I repeat slowly.

He snarls in response. Did Cain think I could pay for this? I try to remember what happened at check-in, but I only remember making coffee. My memory is of stirring coffee even though I’m pretty sure I didn’t put any cream or sugar in it. No idea why, but I remember doing it at least.

My fingers curl over the edge of the binder. I drop my gaze down, rather than keep looking at the building stormcloud of anger darkening Cain’s glare.

“Fuck paying.” His response whips over me, crackling hot fury and scorn. “I’m not buying you shit. I’m not here to play nice. I’m taking what I want, fuck the rules. Got it? Fuck following the rules.”

This demon I command snaps and snarls like a caged animal. I understand the warning and ignore it entirely. I understand so much about Cain in that moment, yet stupidity blurts right out of me. I’m too excited to stop myself. “Is that really something I could make you do, follow the rules of my world?”

Cain’s eyes widen, the angry line of his brow slips into a waver of sudden fear. He leans back from me. A wordless growl tells me everything I already know.

“I could.” It spills from me with a bursting smile. “I could make you get a job to buy me things. I could make you go to college with me. I could --”

When Cain jerks toward me, I shriek. I clutch the leather-bound binder in front of my face like a shield. My heart bursts staccato terror that Cain’s going to hit me. Instead his fist closes over my elbow. Cain yanks me from the warm fluff of bedding.  

“You’re not doing any of that shit.” His voice is a low, vicious insistence backed with the heavy threat of violence. “I’m not doing that shit. Got it?” He punctuates this with a bruising squeeze.

I’m wide-eyed, stiff with fear, tensed to push from him except I know it’d be futile to try. Cain’s stronger than me. He’s so strong, and quick, he could hurt me easily. He could kill me without breaking a sweat, snap my neck or choke me, beat me bloody with his fists. I’m a complete fucking idiot for thinking I tamed this demon just because he’s been nice to me.

I squirm and whimper. Cain snatches my other arm with a snarl, and I quit my meager resistance.  He holds me tight and close, looming down at me with a fierce, determined glare and steady, furious rumbling. I stare up at him, my whole body shivering, somewhere between wanting to scream or sob.

I run my tongue over the bumpy scar on my lip and swallow. The words slip from me as a dry, thin whisper. “Okay, Cain. Okay.”

His grip eases by small fraction. I watch the bracketed lines at his mouth, the slow collapse of his brow. He’s scared. Through my own fear I realize just how terribly I’ve frightened Cain. I scared him.

Somehow I manage to shape a shaky smile. “We don’t have to follow the rules,” I tell Cain.

Tension slacks from him further. He starts to look doubtful, wary. I continue in the same soothing tone, “I won’t make you do anything you don’t want to do.”

“Tch!” Cain releases me with a harsh shove. He sneers, “Dumbass fucking necromancer like you can’t make me do shit.”

It’s a lie. I can make him do whatever I want. I might have to hurt him, to make him obey, but I could make him obey me. I bet it doesn’t matter that Cain’s stronger than me physically. I could hurt him if I wanted to, I bet there’s a way for me to hurt Cain without hitting him. I could make him tell me. I could order he explain to me exactly what terrible things I’m capable of doing to demons. I bet I could do a lot of horrible things to Cain against his will.

Being a necromancer means I’m in charge of him. He’s a dead thing. No matter how many living, breathing bodies I summon from dark depths, it doesn’t change what he is. Cain’s a demon. He’s been trying to boss me around and scare me so I won’t realize how much power I have over him. He won’t give me any of the answers because he doesn’t want me using them to hurt him, humiliate him, dominate and control him.

The awkward, painful truth is Cain has to serve me, if he wants a body. If he doesn’t want to be a dead thing stuck on the Otherside, he needs a necromancer. He needs me. I’m the only necromancer he knows how to find, the only one stupid enough to listen.  

That I’ve figured out the truth must be all over my expression. Understanding floods the tender look of sympathy I give Cain. It heats my cheeks and neck, sets my heart into slow-thumping ache.

He leans from me. His subtle retreat toward the headboard accompanies the wide flare of his nostrils, the lift of his brows. Now I have truly frightened Cain, because I’m not afraid him. There’s nothing scary about this demon, other than the fact he doesn’t trust me.

“Cain,” I say quietly. “Cain, it’s okay. Really. We can talk about this. We can figure it out together. Whatever we do, we should both agree on it. Okay?”

“Fuck off,” Cain snaps. “Fuck you.” He jerks to his feet, fists clenched and ready.

I flinch my hands into the comforter to keep from bolting off the bed entirely. I’m pretty certain Cain won’t hit me, but I think he could. I might be able to hit him back somehow, might be able to prevent him from hitting me, but I don’t actually know how. Regardless I’m not going to fight Cain. It’s a fight I’m pretty sure I won’t win, a fight that’ll only hurt us both. It might kill one of us, and I don’t think Cain will let that be me.

“Cain,” I say gently. “Please sit down. Please. Let’s talk about this.”

I don’t think it’ll work, but it does. Cain eases back onto the bed. He moves slow and cautious like this might be a trap. When I reach my hand out to touch his arm, I get a wordless snarl from him, a wild and uncertain warning.

I keep my gaze steadily locked on Cain’s and shift closer to him. I draw the slow line of my touch up his arm and then reach for his face. He flinches, head twitching to the side with a sharper growl. I slow even further, move in a measure of whispers. My fingers bury into the dark, heated warmth of his hair. Tension ripples over Cain, works his lips into a silent, bared-teeth snarl.

“Cain,” I murmur. Almost a warning, not quite a reprimand, a gentle reminder to this wary demon that I won’t hurt him. Not on purpose, at least, not because I want to. I don’t want to hurt Cain. Last thing I want to do is hurt Cain.

I stroke my fingers through his hair. I try to convey everything to him with a tender caress, the pliable willingness of my body folded close against him. “I’m glad you’re here,” I say to Cain. “I’m glad you found me.”

The angry lines smooth from Cain’s forehead. His dark gleaming gaze searches over my face. He takes in the close and eager press of my body, clearly trusts nothing about what I’m doing. Cain’s right to be cautious, because this is a trap. A well-intended one, but a trap all the same.

I get my arms looped around Cain’s neck, cage him into sweetly-offered affections. Heat flares through the scar as I press my lips to Cain’s. His lashes lower. I hum softly, curl my fingers into his hair.

My kiss sparks an inferno into Cain, sets him into an entirely different kind of snarling. A rough-callused hot hand slides up my arm and cradles between my shoulders. He parts my mouth with the blunt insistence of his tongue.

I press close with an encouraging, near-desperate whine. Cain groans quietly in response, the sound reverberating into the tangled shared pant of breath. His teeth rake over the fast thrum of pulse at my throat. Demanding hands knead along my shoulders and back, they reach low and cup the rounded curve of my ass through the thin cotton underwear. I arch into Cain’s touch, moan and keen in the most embarrassing ways.

“Please,” I whisper to him between kisses. “Cain, please.”

He obliges me, shows no signs of doing anything else. Cain nibbles at my lip and runs his hands over my body. Arousal follows the exploration of his hands. The touch draws soft, mewling cries into my gasped breaths. He pushes up the hem of my t-shirt and then strips it from me once I shift to accommodate. I reach for the shirt he’s wearing, and Cain lets me slip it over his head.

I stroke my hands over Cain’s bare chest and feel strong muscles beneath the unblemished perfection of his skin. No scars, no bruises, no scrapes or bumps, the body I gave him is flawless. I glance up at Cain.

Surely I’m something Cain wants, something he desires. Surely this is something he wants, and not just something he thinks he has to give me. His dark gaze is hooded, his mouth curled. Stiffness between his legs demonstrates exactly how physically willing his body is for this. I can see his cock jutting into the thin cotton fabric of his underwear as Cain prowls over me. He knocks me into the bed just as much as I pull Cain on top of me.

I clutch at his hair as we surge into a kiss and tangle together. In the back of my head is a screaming voice of panic about the fact I’m a necromancer, he’s a demon. He has to do whatever I want, and it’s obvious I want Cain. I’m hot hard burning for Cain, eager hands and lips all over him.

“Cain.” It barely sounds like me speaking. Between kisses, pitched whines and moans threatening to obscure the words. “Cain, what do you want?”

It’s perhaps the stupidest question yet that I’ve asked Cain. His dry chuckle stirs the fine hairs on my neck. Sharp teeth catch my ear. “You,” Cain rumbles.

His hand glides along my thigh as a command and question, a warning. He hooks a thumb into the waistband of the blue striped boxers I’m wearing. For an answer I mimic him, pluck my fingers over the white striped match he’s wearing from the same stolen set, some stranger’s bland collection that we strip from each other in a hasty race.

More to see if he’ll let me than anything, I push at Cain’s shoulder in suggestion, rub my thigh to his hip as we reposition. I roll upright over Cain and straddle my thighs across the lean plane of his stomach. He lazes into the bed to watch, attentive and eager, eyes roaming the pale expanse of my body.

Cain’s hips thrust forward with a hungry growl, though he stays down. He lets me keeps him pinned with mere wanton suggestion, the soft squeeze of my thighs. Cain guides my hip in one hand, grabs a handful of my ass in the other. Under his suggestive demand I shift lower to rub myself over his cock with shameful, all-consuming need.

I don’t mean to sound so sultry. I’m some breathless, bewitching creature as I ask Cain, “Do you like me?”

“Yeah,” he pants. “Yeah. Yeah, you stupid fuck.”

Cain takes us both into the firm pump of his hand. His cock slides alongside mine, a matchstrike of sensation that sends fire tracing along my thighs. I moan and rock forward to match the roll of his hips. The sway of my body follows his commanding tugs. Ardent fervor tightens my breath into shudders as an inevitable peak approaches.

“Cain. Oh, Cain!” Pleasure pours from my lips in bubbled moans and cries. I jerk and thrash, cling and claw a useless scrabble of harmless thin nails over the sculpted strength of Cain’s chest.

“Please,” I beg him. Whispering, sweet desperation sharpening into a cry. “Oh, please!”

Cain bucks beneath me with a rumbling purr, a long drawn-out groan. Come slicks through his hand. The wet, steady pumps and tight, hot spurt of his cock pressed to mine overwhelms me into matched orgasm. Release claws my throat, shakes and shivers free the most humiliating small noises.  

I fold into Cain’s chest with a flutter, nudge at his neck with my nose and kiss his throat, nip a light snip into the buried beat of pulse. I’m wild for him, a soft-snarling beast in that moment of unleashed lust. Everything about this is reckless and foolish, but I don’t care. I’ve wanted Cain since the beginning. He’s exactly my type -- tall, dark and handsome, a punk rock idol of forbidden, foreboding desire.  

The blazing intensity crescendos and fades to leave me stunned, sated, draped heavy and limp over Cain. My cheek rests into his shoulder, my fingers brave small, brushing strokes into his hair. The quiet stretches long after we’ve caught our breath. I wonder if he’s okay. If this is okay, if anything gets to be okay now that Cain knows I know the truth.

I listen to the steady, pounding tempo of Cain’s heart beating in his chest. I wonder how much of the truth he knows, if he heard any of the stupid things I whispered to him while hospitalized. There were nights I fully accepted that Cain was only thoughts and feelings, someone I’d made up to cope with the stress of my dull, normal life. I thought Cain wasn’t real and whispered to him anyway, whispered horrible things I only partway remember. I don’t know if he heard me. He didn’t say anything back if he did. I only remember Marcia sitting with me at breakfast, Cain suddenly there in the dead girl’s body. I don’t remember his voice in my head acknowledging the repeated, desolate pleas for him to be real, for him to come find me.

I think maybe I should get up, I should get off Cain and clean the mess. I stay rested into him instead because he lets me, he doesn’t stir at all to get free of my smothering collapse. Eventually the gloopy smeared wetness over my skin becomes uncomfortable enough that I lift my head.

A smug, satisfied gleam shapes the curve of Cain’s mouth. The thick, dark sweep of his lashes glides open as he feels me shifting upright. Our eyes meet.

I have no idea what to say. The lack of words scalds my cheeks. I pull my lower lip into my teeth, worry gently at the scar. After a moment of staring at Cain, I decide to try for a smile. The longer he watches me with that same smirking contentment, the less concerned I feel, the more my smile becomes genuine.

“Alright.” Cain stretches some with a low, reverberating hum. His voice picks into brisk, bossy demand -- “You still want room service?”


	33. Chapter 33

“That real?”

Cain mushes the words out around chewing. He swallows to make enough room for another massive, shoved-in wad of food. I’m almost concerned he’ll choke, eating so much so quickly, but I don’t want to make Cain uncomfortable by suggesting he slow down. I don’t want to do anything to disrupt our fragile truce.

I glance at the television. The volume’s a low background murmur, distinct enough to hear but not so sharp as to be distracting. I don’t necessarily want to watch TV. It’s a shameless bribe, same as the fancy room service hamburger swiftly being demolished.

I have no idea what Cain wants to know, asking me if the evening news is real. He can’t possibly mean the television itself. I take a bite of my club sandwich to buy time. It doesn’t help me make it less of a question, instead of an answer. “Yes?”

“Huh.” Cain lets the last handful of hamburger rest in his loosely curled clutches. He stares at the television.

I look as well. “That’s the White House,” I offer. “It’s where the President --”

Soft snarling from Cain lets me know to stop talking. Clearly Cain understands what he’s looking at. He’s familiar with my world, he’s been here before. He just wanted to make sure this was real news footage, not a scene from a movie or a commercial.

Cain crams the rest of the burger into his mouth. It’s enough that he struggles to break it down with his teeth. I try not to stare, but it’s impossible not to watch Cain. Everything he does fascinates me. Even the way he gestures at the television and garbles together something scornful and snide interests me. I have no idea what he’s trying to say, but I hang on to every slurred syllable.

Before I can think of a way to ask he repeat it, Cain swallows. One of the thick-cut steak fries gets snatched up to be used as a pointer as he gestures again at the television. “I knew a guy who’d shit himself to see a black dude in charge. Almost wish the son of a bitch was here so I’d see the dumbass fucking look on his face.”

I have a million questions about that. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” says Cain. The fry he’s holding disappears into the fast, eager destruction of his mouth. Several others follow. Maybe I should have ordered him more food. He’s eaten nearly all his dinner in the time it’s taken me to get halfway through a single neatly-cut triangle of mine.

Since Cain doesn’t elaborate, I decide to go for it. He asked me something, that means I get to try asking him something back. I think about it carefully, put all my freshly undrugged clear-thinking effort into it. I strike a balance between asking and declaring, stick my best guess out there for Cain to deny or confirm.

“Your previous necromancer?” I remember his conversation with Phobos, the mention of a near miss at crossing paths in previous lives.  

“Mmhm.” Cain presses his finger into the white porcelain get the last remaining fry and burger crumbs. I almost expect him to start licking the plate clean. I think if there was more left, he would.

I soften into suggestion, a voiced-aloud wonder ready for dismissal. “What was he like?”

Cain shrugs. He sucks the crumbs from his finger and keeps his gaze locked on the television screen. We’re sitting cross-legged together on the same bed, plates balanced across our laps, though Cain’s finished with his. He transfers the plate from his lap to the room service tray that’s just within reach.

I thought the shrug was my answer, because that question was both too direct and too vague, but Cain follows it up with something that’s all rumbling purr, no hint of snarl. “Jealous, sweetheart?”

Shivers run down my spine. What I intend to sound teasing comes out as defensive. “Maybe.”

His smirk spreads. “Maybe you should be. He wasn’t a dumbass like you.”

I turn molten hot for the warm affection coloring the insult. A wide grin reveals the sharp flash of Cain’s teeth. Wicked amusement fills a rumbling laugh as he leans back. Cain braces his weight on his hands and uncrosses his legs into a comfortable stretch. Heat fills me as I watch his lazy sprawl made not quite modest by the terry cloth robe he put on to receive the room service delivery. It's all he's wearing.

If I don’t stop leering at Cain and finish my sandwich, I’ll end up going to bed hungry. Reluctantly I focus on the food in front of me, rather than my ravenous desire for the demon in my bed.

"Yeah. He was smart. I’ll give him that." Cain stretches back further to reach the headboard and settles in comfortably. "The son of a bitch knew his shit inside and out. He said jump and it was yes sir, how high. Motherfucking pain in my ass,” Cain gripes. I glance up in time to catch the sardonic twist of a fresh, feral threat. “Jokes on him though. Being a smartass got him killed.”

I have questions about that as well, but it’s Cain’s turn. He slips his scowl into something more teasing, less dangerous. “So. You planning to live it up in this hotel forever?”

He doesn’t sound opposed to the idea. I smile at Cain as I shake my head. “No, I guess not, but I don’t know where else to go. I can’t go home.”

Cain scoffs. “Why not?”

I hope it doesn’t show on my face how incredulous I am he’s asked me that. “Um. Because, my parents think I’m crazy?”

“So?” he demands. “Tell them to fuck off.”

“It’s not that easy,” I say. “I can’t do that. They’ll put me back in the hospital.”

Cain’s low growl starts more doubtful than angry, builds as he goes. “They can try. You gonna make me stand around while they do, or are you gonna want me stepping in? Because, fuck that place. You’re not going back. Got it?”

I give Cain an uncertain smile. There’s a certain concerned sweetness in the brusque, bossy tone, though what Cain’s suggesting is equally concerning. I don’t want to think about my mother and father being told to fuck off by Cain. I can’t imagine trying to get Cain one foot inside the big empty house my parents bought to put me inside, my home that’s not really mine. Putting me and Cain inside that nice, square life seems impossible, even given all the impossible things we’ve done already.

“What would you do? How would you stop them?” I ask. “You can’t kill my parents.”

It’s not reassuring that Cain grins like I’ve told him a fantastic joke. “Wrong,” he says. “I could easily kill them, sweetheart. Not even a challenge. Your dad’s what, one-ninety? Some fucking banker or lawyer? Doesn’t even own a gun? Yeah. Cakewalk.”

The huffed dismissal holds entirely too much mirth. I’m not sure which pleases him more, proving me wrong or the general idea of committing a multiple homicide.

“Don’t,” I say sharply. “Don’t kill my parents.”

“Alright, alright. Fine. Don’t get your panties in a twist. I’ll talk ‘em into standing down.”

“You can do that?”

I’m more mystified than anything, but Cain’s twitched together scowl indicates I’ve offended him. He snaps, “Talked my way into your fancy fucking house once, didn’t I?”

“When you were a cat?” Not quite a question, despite how unsure I sound.

Cain’s growl wedges a compromise between confirming my guess and expressing his ego-ruffled displeasure. It makes sense that Cain used some sort of power on my mom to make her want a dead cat in her immaculate ivory and eggshell perfection. I can’t imagine why else she would get cozy and cuddly with roadkill, other than Cain’s demonic influence. He’s terrifyingly persuasive. It’s almost impossible to refuse him or deny him anything, even for me, and I’m in charge of him.  

“You could really convince my parents I’m not crazy?”

Cain regards me with a smug expression, a preening display of arrogant self-assurance. He doesn’t bother answering. That single smirk is the only answer I need.

Cain talked his way out of a secured psychiatric ward while under suicide watch and took me along with him. We’re sitting in a posh business hotel eating room service despite my current status as a homeless runaway. Cain’s a demon, a monster from the Otherside. He blatantly ignores the rules of my orderly, secure world. He exists outside of normal, dull things like chemistry midterms and college applications. The square confines of that nice lie my parents want for me, I could make Cain bend the edges so I’d fit.

I finish the remaining wedge of club sandwich while thinking it over. Cain flips through channels, his interest catching on the strangest of things. He lingers longest over the commercials, actually seems to prefer them. I suppose that makes sense. Each thirty second advertisement block contains a density of information about my complicated world, everything from how people dress and talk to the types of products and services being sold. He's catching up on forty years worth of changes.

Once finished with my plate, I stack it on the tray with Cain’s. I hop from the bed and pick up the room service tray. I start toward the door with the intent to stick our dirty dishes in the hall for someone to collect, but Cain’s off the bed and coming after me with a thick, angry snarl.

I stop and turn to Cain with a reassuring smile that doesn’t do anything to slow his advance. He snatches the tray from me, grabs my elbow in a hard fist at the same time.

“I was going to put our dishes in the hall.” I try not to sound defensive. I try to sound nice, like nothing’s wrong, like there’s not a furious demon cutting off the circulation to my arm.

“I told you not to open the door.” Nothing sweet in his harsh growl, nothing nice in his sharp scowl. He’s pure deadly fury that I would disobey him, even though he’s supposed to obey me.

Inadvertently I’ve blundered my way into open hostility. I’ve made a declaration of war despite so much careful effort at maintaining our truce.

“Okay.” I offer shaky surrender in the form of a smile. “Okay. I’m sorry.”

Cain looks from me to the chain-secured door. Shattered-rock rumble from him seems less furious, more acknowledging, maybe shifting toward apology the longer I stand there with a desperate edge shaping my smile. He lets go of my arm. I retreat toward the bed.

I watch as Cain checks through the peephole first before unchaining the door. He grips the handle but hesitates, gaze cutting over his shoulder to where I’m standing. His paranoia about letting me out of his sight falls somewhere between alarming and comforting, same as his insistence that I not be seen by anyone. When room service arrived, I hid in the bathroom.

Cain flicks the bathrobe sash into a quick knot before opening the door. He looks up and down the hall carefully. Quickly Cain crouches and sets the tray down. He scoots it to the side before straightening upright and flicking the wary demand of his gaze in either direction. The _do not disturb_ card gets a double-check before he closes the door. He immediately resets the chain. All that fuss, for less than ten seconds of exposure.  

“Is everything okay? Is something wrong?” I had other questions in mind, other curiosities similar enough in theme that my fingers and toes grow numb. “Cain, are we in danger?”

The scowl I get from Cain isn’t much of an answer, but I think I understand anyway. Everything’s more or less okay, nothing’s especially wrong, and the most dangerous thing in this hotel right now is the demon keeping me hostage.

Cain stalks to the spot he abandoned on my bed and snatches up the television remote. Distinct huffy sulking defines the way he takes the remote with him to the other bed. Cain resettles into the same stretched sprawl, only on the opposite side of the room. Apparently we’re done hanging out together. I broke the ceasefire.

Slowly I scoot into the center of the bed. The queen-sized island of comfort seems lonely without Cain hogging the excess space. I pull my knees under my chin and stare forward at the television without actually watching it.

After a bit of silent moping, I glance sideways at Cain. Maybe it’ll comfort him to see me cooperative and passive. Maybe he’s embarrassed for overreacting, maybe my worried pestering of questions made him realize just what kind of non-existent threat lurks in a hotel hallway. Maybe I’m wrong for obsessing over the fact that every necromancer Cain’s ever known is dead.

I wait long enough for the tension to pass, for Cain’s brow to relax out of deep, angry furrows. I wait until he’s puzzling over an infomercial and not expecting trouble. I keep my voice soft, in case he wants to ignore me. I even ask the question in the wrong way, just to make sure. I give him the easy out as a peace offering.

“Will you tell me how your previous necromancer died?"

Cain’s dark gaze slides from the television to me. Cruelty plucks the sharp spread of his smile, sets him into predatory gleaming. “Sure thing, princess.” His voice is thick dripped-honey sweetness, this is undeniably a snarky, sticky trap. “Never knew you liked ghost stories. I got some good ones. Hearing how a stupid stubborn fuck bled to death though, that’s no fun, that shit’s boring.”

I am okay with boring. I do not like ghost stories. I am very sorry to have asked Cain this question,  especially since he seems so keen to answer.

He thumbs the volume down a couple notches and shifts the full of his attention to me. “Alright, sweetheart, here’s a good one. You’ll like this. I knew a girl, this dumb kid even younger than you. She’s going around, doing her little chores, minding her own goddamn business, when a bunch of assholes show up looking for a good time. Dad’s out chopping wood and decides to be a hero, gets his own axe put into his chest for the trouble. Girl’s shrieking, sobbing for help, getting slapped around nice and tender -- but it’s her lucky day because guess who’s listening?”

After a lengthy pause I take my guess. “You?”

“Yup.” Cain grins. I think he genuinely likes this story. “I show up as the dude with an axe, which was real fucking convenient. Hurt like a son of a bitch to get the damn thing free, but it made things nice and easy having it handy. Anyway she thought it was a goddamn miracle, lost her freaking mind. Would not listen to a word I said about not being her damn Papa. That idiot thought gaping chest wounds just needed some spit and shine to work out fine. Would you believe the lunatic spent three days playing house with corpses before folks came around to check on her? That’s when the real fun started, them trying to break up her little undead tea party. Heads rolling, rocks flying, great time for everyone until the fucking priest shows up. He turned the party into a barbecue, fuck-off huge bonfire, the whole place going up in flames. A necromancer flambe, nothing but blackened bones and ash left of her after that.”

“Oh,” I manage.

I’m not sure which part of Cain’s story I find most disturbing. Possibly the dead necromancer at the end of it. Perhaps it’s the missing details that frighten me most, the lurking reality of horror that fills the gaps of Cain’s gleeful retelling. I don’t even know when and where the story takes place, if this was a hundred years ago or a thousand.

I must not look suitably impressed, or at least not adequately frightened, because the dark plunge of Cain’s brows forms a tight disapproval.

“Got a story about a guy who liked to eat people,” he says. “Sick fuck would do a dinner date in reverse. You know what killed him? Dog bite. Fucking ironic as shit, the dog bit his hand trying to get at leftovers faster and the damn wound infected. Nothing to be done for him after that except point and laugh.”

Did he really do that, or was Cain upset to have another necromancer die on him? Just how many necromancers has Cain had, and what’s the average amount of time he spends with them before an ultimately gruesome demise?

Something tells me old age isn’t a likely cause of death for a profession that involves killing things and summoning demons. There’s a reason I’m the only necromancer Cain knows how to find, the same reason that Deimos goes around killing them. I’m not from the Otherside, but I’m still a monster.    

I hug my knees to my chest, like that might help me crush the throbbing ache that’s part heartbreak, mostly fear. Is something going to change about me, the more I keep doing this? A lot of stomach-churning certainty assures me how close I came to murdering someone in that hospital. I was ready to do anything to get out of that place by the time Cain found me.   

My voice is soft, but it’s not a suggestion. It’s a question I want answered and would like taken seriously, it’s something I want a very specific answer to. “How long were you with your previous necromancer?”

“Six years.” Casual and sneering, not exactly serious even though he gives a direct answer like I want. He even follows it up with the specifics unprompted. “Sixty-eight to seventy-four.”

“What’s the longest you’ve been with someone?” I ask. “A necromancer, I mean.”

Cain’s head tilts to the side. He regards me with open hostility for a moment and then shifts his attention to the television. I’m not getting anymore answer than that, not without repeating the question and insisting he respond. Asking isn’t the same as commanding.

We’re done talking even though it’s his turn to ask questions, and I’ll answer as best I can for whatever he wants to know. He knows I’ll answer honestly, even though I don’t have to tell him anything. I offered that to him as part of the bribe to sweeten the suggestion he sit and eat dinner with me, maybe answer a few of my questions.

Even though it’s his turn, and he can ask me anything he wants, Cain’s quiet. He’s a silent scowl and flipping channels, a full-fledged sulking tantrum that I’m not as dumb as he wants to think. I’ve figured out quite a bit about necromancers and demons and Otherside monsters. None of it seems to be helping me know what to do with Cain. In fact the more I know about being a necromancer, the less Cain wants to do with me. 

Eventually I decide to brush my teeth and get ready for bed. I tell Cain what I’m doing before I start moving around the hotel room, but he doesn’t respond. I don’t even get an acknowledging snarl or something sarcastic. I wonder if he’d stop me if I tried to leave or if we’re past that now.

I want to suggest maybe he ask the front desk for a toothbrush, so he can brush his teeth, too. I’m not sure if demons get cavities, but I like the feel of clean teeth before bed. I bet Cain would as well. As I stand there looking at my own reflection and scrubbing frenzy of minty white foam, sudden memory interjects like an unwanted pop up ad. Complete with audio, something I can’t tune out, the abrupt reminder of Phobos saying -- _Abel, do you know what you’ve done? You gave him corporeal form. This isn’t a corpse he’s possessing._

It’s something I hadn’t realized fully, just how much time Cain’s spent being dead. Not stuck on the Otherside in between necromancers, but time spent being a dead thing in my wonderful living world. I suppose corpses don’t need to brush their teeth. They certainly don’t take hot showers. They probably don’t need to eat fancy hamburgers or sleep nestled in soft feather-fluff bedding, either. Dead things are broken and wretched, they’re terrifying and repulsive. Dead things are empty vessels not meant to last long.

I bet his other necromancers weren’t shy about finding him fresh dead bodies and didn’t hesitate at putting him to use in violent, dangerous ways. Minus the little girl whose hacked-open dead father Cain possessed, I guess. No wonder he thought I’d like the story. She spent three days playing house with corpses, which I assume from Cain’s scorn is as harmless as it sounds, and to let her keep doing it Cain killed as many people as he could before going out in a literal blaze of glory. 

I hope he didn’t tell me that story to highlight what happens when necromancers refuse to be remorselessly evil monsters. I hope I didn’t just hear the story of how his favorite necromancer died. I hope that’s not my record to beat. I desperately hope the bar isn’t so low as surviving longer than three days, if I want to be the best necromancer possible for Cain.

Nothing’s different when I come out of the bathroom. Same scowl, same lazy sprawl that conceals just how fast he’d react if something happened. He lounges with lethal grace of a tiger. From the corner of my eye I see his predatory gaze track my progress across the room. I try not to look directly at Cain as I climb into bed.  

After I’m settled, Cain stays on one channel for awhile. He’s chosen a rerun of _Bewitched_. I’m curious if he recognizes it, or if the novelty of the show’s theme caught his interest, or maybe it’s just a coincidence and he’s simply tired of changing channels. I wonder if asking Cain nice, harmless questions about things he likes would help make anything about this situation easier for us or if it would just make everything worse.

I shift my cheek into the pillow and pull the blankets to get cozy. Even though I spent most of the day sleeping, I’m exhausted. Tomorrow I can figure out a plan for what to do, where to go next. I’ll think about all the things I’m avoiding, like my parents and what happened to Aidan. Tomorrow I can decide if I want to go home or stay a runaway, if I want to bend the rules or break them. Maybe tomorrow I’ll convince Cain it’s okay to like me, that it’s okay for things to be nice even though we’re monsters. Maybe I’ll convince myself it’s okay to be in love with a demon, and that I’m not doomed for thinking I can play house with one.


End file.
